


Doomed Souls

by luxuriasdance



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Dark, Dark Jon Snow, Eventual Romance, F/M, Future Fic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sansa-centric, Sex, Slow Burn, Sorry Not Sorry, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2018-10-19 19:52:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10646889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxuriasdance/pseuds/luxuriasdance
Summary: ‘’She did not pray to the gods anymore, the old or the new. Prayer had not helped her when she had suffered and prayer had not saved her house from ruin. It would not help her now either. No one would. The gods are either dead or deaf and men have no mercy, she thought bitterly. She was alone once again, left to her own devices like she had been for years.’’





	1. Prologue

Hate.  


It was all she felt. She had known no other emotion after her rebirth. She knew not the reason why she hated. She could not remember who she had been or how she had died. She had no memories of her past life, she knew no other purpose but revenge. Every move she made, every nod of her chin or twitch of her fingers was fueled by her hatred and need for vengeance.  


Every moment of her torturous existence was marked by constant loathing. Her hatred only grew stronger when she delivered justice to the abominations who had done her harm in her previous life. She somehow knew them without ever remembering anything. It was as if her tormented soul could recognise them when her mind failed her. It was as if her murderers have left a mark so deep and clear that even death could not erase. Punishing her killers filled her with even more hatred instead of bringing her satisfaction.  


But what she felt now, when looking at the deep green eyes of the man before her, was more powerful than any abhor she had experienced since she was gifted with her second life. It was hatred so pure that it burned through her chest, suffocating her even though her dead lungs drew no breath. It ravaged her broken mind, sudden and all-consuming. She wanted to hurt him, to make him suffer, to make him pay…  


Her mind screamed in pain, her mouth opened to follow but only a gurgling sound came out.  


She could see the recognition on his face. He knew her even though she did not remember him. The terror that followed the recognition was mingled with such a pure surprise and disbelief that she wanted to laugh. The thought of laughter was so unexpected and foreign that she paused for a moment. She was unsure if she was even capable of laughter. _It did not matter!_ Her eyes snapped back to the beast fettered before her.  


_Punishment!_ He deserved to be punished. But not like the others. No, death was not enough for a monster like him. She wanted to hear his agonised roars and hear him beg for the mercy of a quick death. She wanted him to suffer, she **needed** him to suffer. Like she had once suffered and begged when…  


Pain shot through her brain and her mind went blank once again. She did not know what had made her suffer and scream. All she knew was the hatred that followed. And now she finally had someone to gift her hate to.  


She moved silently towards the man, her eyes never leaving his face. Her mouth spread into an ugly cold smile, her face promising him a painful death. And in his emerald eyes, she finally saw understanding, _he knew_. He knew she brought justice for his crimes, he saw the promise of a righteous retribution. She was the ghost of his past misdeeds that had come back to haunt him. _**She was the stranger come again.**_  


She heard a sharp noise to her left and then the priest’s lifeless voice:  


“Milady, remember our intentions. Remember the plan!”  


She stopped with a halt, unwillingly breaking her eyes away from the handsome face of her prisoner.  


The plan… She started digging through her memories, desperately trying to pick out the right one. Her broken mind found difficulty retaining any memories and thoughts that were not related to her righteous quest- bringing justice to all those who had wronged her.  


The priest saw her struggle and offered help:  


“Remember the girls, milady. Remember the voice in the wood.”  


The memory flared suddenly. _The voice!_ The voice had told her she needed the man that she so desperately wanted to hurt. She needed him for something other than vengeance- that is why she had forgotten. Her mind struggled against the though. She knew only vengeance and the idea that there was something else was foreign and unacceptable.  


But the voice had insisted she was not to kill the golden monster, that he was the only way.  


When she had first heard the voice nearly a moon ago, her soul had shuddered in agony. She had almost felt something different to her constant pain and hatred. She knew not what it could be, she could not name it for she possessed no concept or knowledge of anything but loathing and revenge. It had been agonising to hear the voice though. It reminded her of her past life somehow, it felt as if she could almost remember if only she tried. But she had tried and tried, enduring the anguish that came with trying. Yet the memories and the emotion were always out of reach. Her mind had been ripped apart and sewn back together but it seemed some of her stayed dead and refused to be reborn.  


The closest she had been to remembering was the second time she had heard the voice. She saw flashes of auburn and heard laughter that was filled with something she could not name or understand. It sounded nothing like the bitter chuckles her companions gave whenever they caught a traitorous weasel and brought it to the rope. _Happiness_ , the voice had named it but the word carried no meaning for her.  


The third and last time that the voice had sought her brought her no memories at all. Yet she knew she would obey the voice for reasons beyond her understanding. Something deep inside of her hateful soul knew that the plan was, in a way, connected to the reason for her vengeance.  


_She could have the lion_ , the voice had assured. She could have his screams and suffering and begging. She just had to wait a little longer.  


Until then, there were others. Countless weasels, a small, twisted lion and an emerald queen, all waiting for her justice and her rope. She could leave this golden beast for last.  


And then, after justice had been served, she could rest. Her unending pain would finally cease; her hatred would burn out. She could finally have her peace and she would join the ones she had forgotten. She saw a flash of grey and white and someone ran fingers through her long, auburn hair. Her hand shot towards her head.  


She felt a sharp, blinding pain and her mind went blank once again. She dropped her arm to her side, not knowing why she had raised it in the first place. Her eyes felt dry and hurt in an unfamiliar way but she paid no mind to it- pain was her constant consort now.  


She had made her decision. She would wait.  


She did not look at the green-eyed lion lest her resolve to spare him might falter. She nodded to the priest and her throat screeched. He knew her meaning.  


He drew his dagger and stepped toward the captives:  


“Today is not the day you die, Kingslayer. Milady has a need of you.”


	2. Melisandre

She was awake in her room, staring at the fire and praying for her God to show her the way. She had heard the Lord Commander read the letter that the Bastard of the Dreadford had sent, yet she was sure it was false. Stannis could not be dead; she would have known. She would have seen a sign in her fires if her King had fallen. Yet, the fires had not shown her the King in over a moon. Whenever she asked R’hllor for a vision of the King, she only saw snow. _What if there is a reason for that? What if that reason was that her King was buried deep beneath the snow?_ Her fires refused to show her anything tonight. 

She was lost deep in thoughts when her God finally answered her prayers. The flames danced for her once again but what she saw in them stilled her heart and terrified her more than the absence of visions. _King's blood running in the snow_ was all she could see in her fires. King’s blood as red and thick as Dronish wine. That was when she heard the shouts coming from the yard. _King’s blood coloring the snow._ Her mind went stiff with the thought that they were bringing Stannis’ dead body back to Castle Black. She felt as if her faith was betraying her, her last hope for mankind burning out like a candle in the cold. She ran then like she had not run in more years than she could count, as fast as her legs could carry her. She could hear her guards running behind her, cursing.

She reached the courtyard and stopped with a halt. _It is not the King._ Relief washed over her body. _Not all is lost._ Her relief was short-lived and gave way to uneasiness once again when she took in the scene before her. 

The horror she saw at the yard was of a different kind. The giant Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun was flinging a dead body surrounded by the black brothers. The wildling who was used to translate between Jon Snow and the giant was shouting. _Leathers_ , she thought absently. Yet he was not shouting at the murderous mountain of a man. He was screaming at his brothers, his voice ringing loud and clear across the yard. Melisandre could distinguish the words _‘Traitors’_ and _‘Dirty Crows’_. 

Most of the black brothers were out here and she could see the wildlings chaotically pouring out of all buildings, trying to understand what the noise was all about. Melisandre’s eyes searched for Jon Snow. She saw the Lord Commander’s body fallen lifelessly in the soft white snow, his hand on his half-drawn sword. A Snow in the snow. She would laugh if she had it not been so tragic. The Lord Commander would have made a great ally, R’hllor had shown her he was important to her cause somehow.

None of the black brothers around him seemed surprised or even worried that their Commander had fallen. Their attentions were directed at the giant and the wildling. _It’s a mutiny!_

One of them, the plump First Steward drove his sword through Leathers’ belly. Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun roared with rage and swung towards the Bowen Marsh, smashing his body into the nearby wall. The black brothers started slashing at him, one of them drove his sword through the giant’s calf. A scream of pain escaped the giant’s chest. Slowly he started backing away, the black brothers following, keeping him surrounded and slashing at his massive body.

_Knives in the dark._ She had warned the Lord Commander but he had not listened. Now she watched as his blood was staining the snow beneath him. The snow she kept seeing in her visions. For so long she had been convinced the fires showed her the snow that stood between her and Stannis. Her certainty betrayed her now. _King’s blood on the snow._

Her breath caught got caught in her throat, her eyes still fixed on the lifeless body of the Lord Commander. _Snow_ the fires showed her whenever she asked for her _King_. Terror crept up her body once again, for the second time that night. _King’s blood in the snow._ Her ancient soul knew something was not right, she could feel she was missing something, unable to put her chaotic thoughts in order. _King_ , Jon Snow’s raven had croaked. She had paid it no mind. Her heart was stiff with terror even when her mind was too slow to catch up. _Snow, snow, king’s blood in the snow._ She had been so blind, so unreceptive to R’hllor’s signs and visions. Realization hit her then, like an armored fist in her stomach. Three years she had spent by Stannis’ side so sure that he was the Prince who was Promised. Three years she had been preparing him for the Long Night blindly believing he was chosen by the Lord of Light. _It could not be._ All those signs she had seen in her flames. _A frail hope you are clinging to_ , she told herself, _you have been known to err before._ No error she had ever made was as grave as this one though. Snow. She should have seen. She knew in that moment how wrong she had been in believing her fires had shown her that King Stannis was going to lead them through the Long Night. The Lord of Light had tried time and again to show her the error. The snow she saw in her visions was not the snow that buried the North, it was the Snow that she was looking at in this moment. She understood now.

The true King was in front of her, dying or already dead in the snow. She had not cried since they had brought her in the temple of the Red God so many years ago but she would have cried now if she had the time and luxury for such weakness. 

All around her, men were screaming. The confusion was giving way to understanding. The Northmen and the wildlings were just now realizing Jon Snow’s body lay in the further end of the yard, unmoving. She could see the shocked looks on the faces of the few black brothers who had not participated in the betrayal of their Lord Commander. She could see the anger in the faces of the wildlings who were loyal only to the man who had let them through the Wall and offered them safety. She could hear the confused roar of Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun and the horrified scream of the wildling girl Val.

Her guards surrounded her, ready to protect her with their lives. The _Queens men_ the black brothers called them, but in truth, they were her men. She knew them to be devoted and dutiful, always eager to serve the Lord of Light. She doubted anyone would dare lay hand on her, even in the midst of the treasonous mutiny. The black brothers could feel her power and if not, she could show it to them. Still, it was good to have her men around her for what she was preparing to do.

A mighty thud sounded in the yard. Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun had fallen on the ground, dragging a black brother down with him and crushing another one in the process. He would not rise again. Melisandre could see that the giant was dying. Maybe he could kill a few more of the men who were trying to kill him but his wounds were too grievous. As strong as he was, there was near thirty black brothers all stabbing at him relentlessly. The wildlings started shouting at the crows to leave the giant alone. Melisandre could see their leader, Tormund drawing out his sword and stepping towards the cluster of black brothers, tears running down his face. She heard him shouting above all other noise:

“Who cut Lord Snow? Who murdered him? ANSWER, CROWS!” 

She could feel within her bones that more blood was to be spilled tonight. The hatred between the Night’s Watch and the wildlings had only been contained through great efforts on the part of the dead Lord Commander. _His death would be the breaking point of this uncertain peace_ , she though.

The wildlings outnumbered the black brothers five to one. Yet most of them were untrained and without armor or weapons. It would be a blood bath. Already she could hear the wildling’s angry shouts towards the black brothers. They did not know who cut the first slash or who drove the first dagger in the Lord Commander’s body but they wanted the whole Night’s Watch to pay.

Jon Snow’s body would be trampled in the battle that was to follow. She needed to get him to safety. She was glad in that moment that the Queen’s men were surrounding her as she moved towards the far end of the yard, closer to the Lord Commander’s body. Nobody paid her any mind as the shouts became louder and more aggressive. Melisandre heard steel clash into steel. It was beginning. 

She saw one of the black brothers move towards Jon Snow’s body. She knew to be the Lord Commander’s personal steward, loyal to him. She made a decision then.  
“We need to take the Lord Commander to safety”, she said to her men. Two of them went ahead and lifted the lifeless body from the ground.  
She made to move towards Jon Snow’s steward.

“I will need you to show us to safety.” He looked uncertainly at her. “Only the Lord of Light can help your Lord Commander now.” All indecision left his face at that.  
“We can go to the wormwalks under the castle, m’lady”, the boy said. She did not answer, only nodded and he led the way.

The black brother led them to a door in Hardin’s tower, then down some stairs and into the tunnels beneath Castle Black. There was no light save for the ruby on her neck which shone brightly, illuminating their way. Melisandre could hear the sounds of fighting coming from above. She could hear the clash of swords, the storm of battle was raging on up in the courtyard. It did not matter, not really. **Her battle would be more important.**

They stepped into a large chamber. It was where the Night’s Watch stored their food supplies. It smelled strongly of salted meat and Melisandre felt as if she could taste the salt on her tongue.

She gave a sign to her men to leave the body on a table near the wall. They did as she bid them.

“Leave us.” None moved to question her. She caught the steward’s gaze. “Not you. The Lord still has a use for you.” He paused as the others left them. He looked at her, puzzled but determined. He wanted to help, he loved his Lord Commander.

She was scared, she felt as powerless as a faithless man. _What if I cannot do it? What if I fail the Lord of Light once again?_

She gathered all her remaining strength then and turned towards the young man. _He is no man though, is he? This is the face of a boy._

“What is your name?”, she asked, desperate to silence her doubts, hoping to find the resolve she needed in his voice.

“Satin, milady.” 

Melisandre moved closer to the handsome boy; her hand raised to caress his cheek. His skin was soft and his eyes warm when he met her fiery gaze. She offered him a confident smile and he smiled back shyly.

“You can help Lord Snow, can you not, milady? You can… bring him back?”, he asked, his voice so full of hope. “That is why we needed to move him. I have heard the stories back in Oldtown. Your God can bring him back to life.” 

“Mine is the only God, Satin.” 

Satin did not argue with her but she could see the hard resolve in his eyes. He would not believe in the Lord of Life even if her God appeared to him right there in this moment. He prayed to the old gods now, she knew, but he did not truly believe in any gods. He had denounced the Seven easily enough. He was of the rare sort of men who had no true faith in anything. _How empty must their lives be_ , she almost felt sorry. There would come a day when they would all see it as she did. All non-believers would denounce their false gods and find the truth or they would burn. But it was too early still for that, they needed as many men as they could get to face the Long Night, believers and non-believers alike.  
She took another step towards Satin, her lips softly kissing his ear. He deserved as much.

“You served the Lord of Light well tonight, Satin. I am sorry”, she whispered and she thrust her dagger through his heart.

She felt regret as she had watched terror replace the warmth of his eyes. He had been loyal and true. A great loss, even though he was a non-believer. Yet his death was necessary. The fire in one’s blood, the flames of life were stronger than any flame she could kindle herself. _Satin’s flame needed to go out so Jon Snow’s could flare up once more. It was for the greater good. The boy should have been happy had he known how important his role was in the grand plan of the One True God. There might even be songs about him one day. The boy whose life gave mankind hope._ Somehow she knew that to be untrue. Satin had not believed in gods, not really. He would not have seen his sacrifice as worthy. It did not matter now. 

She knew what to do but she knew not if she could do it. She had heard many stories of others in her Order who could whisper the fire of life back into a lifeless body. She had never had that gift herself but now she needed to try anyway. She needed to try and succeed. It was the only chance for mankind. She had to bring him back or they would have had to face the Long Night without a King.

Melisandre pulled up her dress and reached for the black candle tucked safely in her boot. She always carried it with her, even when she slept- it was too valuable to be left laying somewhere unattended. She had brought it with her from Asshai, where it had been crafted with flame and shadow. It was her very last one, each servant of R’hllor was given only three for their lifetime. Yet she knew there would be no time more important than this one to use it. 

She did not need flint to kindle the flame, the Lord of Light had gifted his faithful servants with the gift of fire. The candle lit up suddenly, its bright light piercing the darkness.  
Screams of pain reached her ears from above. The smell of burning flesh. Something was burning above. Melisandre’s eyes started to sting. Smoke was seeping through the door of the chamber. This was not the pure flame of the Lord of Light. It felt unclean. She could hear the battle still roaring. Her eyes were stinging even more now, a tear spilling down her cheek and onto her lips. She tasted salt. A second tear fell on Jon Snow’s face. Her heart started beating faster. _And he will be reborn amongst smoke and salt…_

Melisandre ran her over the bloody blade and brought it to her lips, tasting the blood. It was not a strong bloodline but it did not need to be- Jon Snow had all the King’s blood that was needed. She raised her hands, gripping the dagger tightly, and slammed it into the Lord Commander’s heart. 

She spoke the words she had read so long ago under the shadow and she felt the power surge through her body and into the dagger in her hands.  
Jon Snow’s eyes snapped open. 

Melisandre’s breath caught in her throat, her hands started shaking violently. The Lord of Light had finally deemed her worthy. Despite her doubts and questions, despite the faltering of her faith of lately, her God had not abandoned her. More so, he had rewarded her with his gift of life even though she did not deserve it. Her mistake had been almost fatal; she had gambled the fate of the world and almost lost. But R’hllor had not forgotten her while she was following the wrong King. Her God had given her a chance to fix her error.

She bowed her head to her true King now, tears of relief filling her eyes. She had not failed. She had brought Jon Snow back.

Her King rose now, his hand gripping the handle of the dagger and pulling it from his heart. No blood followed, he was no mere mortal now.

Melisandre dared to raise her head now and looked into his eyes. _Something is wrong._ The same grey eyes that she had seen many times before. Only now, instead of light grey, they were darker, like the sky promising a storm. Where used to be kindness, there was only anger now. She could see something almost animalistic in these that had been absent before. There was no malice in his gaze but there was no light in it either. 

Fear gripped Melisandre’s mind when Jon Snow’s eyes delved into hers. There was hunger in his eyes, powerful and all-consuming. A hunger that could not be satiated, not by her, not by anything she knew. 

And she knew it in her heart then. _She had failed._ This was not the same man that she spoke this same night before his brothers betrayed him. He had come back different. _He had come back wrong._


	3. Alayne

_She was Sansa, not Alayne. Snow was falling around her. She was standing amidst a coniferous forest, tall trees all around her. It was beautiful, almost serene. She heard a wolf howling somewhere ahead of her. The sound was sorrowful and filled with pain. She could almost feel the animal’s agony inside her own body. She felt a sudden desperate need to find it._

_She made a step forward only to realise she had four legs covered in soft grey fur. **I am a wolf**. Somehow that did not seem strange or out of the ordinary._

_**I must be dreaming** , Sansa thought. _

_Another tormented howl prompted her to move. She could smell the other wolf. She could **feel** it. Her four strong legs carried her fast towards the sound. There was urgency in her sprint. She knew in her heart she needed to reach the howling animal quickly. _

_She found the dying wolf underneath a weirwood tree, red blood staining its white fur and the ground around it. She moved closer to it and gently touched his muzzle with hers. The wolf’s eyes opened, red as the blood covering the white snow. They were filled with agony. Somehow she could feel it in her own body._

_**Jon** , she thought. _

_She saw recognition in his eyes then. He knew her too. The suffering in his eyes gave way to something else then. Longing. His head moved closer to her, a low tortured growl escaping him. His muzzle nudged at her own._

_**Sansa** , her brother said._

Alayne’s eyes snapped open at the sound of a knock on her door. Her eyes looked wildly around the room, unable to recognise her surroundings for a moment. She had been a wolf in her dream and now she had to turn into a stone once more. Unexplainable sadness crawled in her chest and filled her eyes as she tried to recollect her dream in vain. **Jon had been there**. 

_It is better to forget. I am a wolf no more. Sansa was the wolf, I am just Alayne._ She had been a daughter of the North once, an heiress to Winterfell. Her days had been filled with love and the laughter of her siblings. People bowed their heads when she walked around the castle and the big bell tower echoed with sound for her name days. But she had turned into a victim in the South. A lone wolf in a den full of lions, forced to pretend her pelt was golden like theirs. She had been forbidden to mourn the slaughter of her pack and she had been expected to smile the day her kingly brother and her mother had been killed. Dead, all of them dead. **All except for Jon**. But she was Sansa then and Sansa had been stupid and naïve; she had been broken and now there was naught left to break. The lions have taken until there was naught left to take. She was Sansa Stark no more. Sansa had died with her father at the steps of Baelor’s Sept. She had died with her baby brothers at Winterfell. She had died with her big brother and her lady mother at the Twins. _I died in Kings Landing._

Alayne was just a bastard but she was much happier than Sansa had been. Alayne had no siblings to grieve and her dreams were not filled with dead blue eyes and auburn hair in a puddle of blood. No ghosts haunted her life with the echo of innocence and happiness. 

Another knock on the door tore her away from Sansa Stark’s memories and for that Alayne was glad.

“A moment,” She stood up slowly, reluctant to leave the warmth of her bed, and put on her dressing gown.

Lila, one of Myranda Royce’s maids stood in the hallway.

“I apologise for waking you, milady, but Lady Royce asked if you would break your fast with her.” Alayne was no lady but there was little use in correcting her. She was the Lord Protector’s daughter and rumors spread like fire about her engagement with the heir of the Vale, even if it was informal. The servants would not call her anything but ‘ **milady** ’ even though she stood lower in the eyes of society than them.

“Thank you, Lila. Please tell Lady Royce I will join her once I am dressed.”  
Alayne slipped in a simple but warm green dress as quickly as she could. She knew Myranda would be impatient in her eagerness to hear all that had transpired between Alayne and Harry at the feast the night before. She would have to change before the tilts as it was not fitting for the hostess of the tournament to be dressed as plainly as a milkmaid.

When she stepped in the hallway and hurried towards Myranda’s chambers, Alayne’s dark mood had all but faded, replaced by excitement. She knew it was childish but it had been so long since she had a friend and a confidante with whom she could share gossip.

Myranda was huddled in a massive armchair near the fireplace. She was still in her dressing gown, her hair disheveled and her face wearing a pained expression that told Alayne her friend had drunk too much wine at the feast the night before. Despite that, her eyes lit up with mischief as soon as she saw Alayne entering her solar.

“You took a long time to dress, dear!” She exclaimed without malice in her voice. On the small table in front of her, the servants had laid out boiled eggs, fresh bread, and butter. All of it was untouched.

“I was still in bed when Lila came to summon me, Randa. You have woken up early considering you were still dancing with young Luceon Templeton when I retired.” Alayne laughed.

Myranda waved her comment away with a smile and pulled Alayne to sit next to her. The armchair was so big they could both fit in it if they huddled together and Alayne was grateful for the warmth of another body next to her in the chilly morning. Myranda pointed at the food but Alayne shook her head, she was not hungry.

“I could not sleep without hearing all that occurred between you and Harry at the feast, Alayne.” The excitement in her voice was easy to hear. _But is she genuine or does she hate me for it?_

“He was much better behaved while we danced than he was in the yard yesterday. I liked him well enough.” She kept to herself that she had thought her future husband to be rather shallow. She trusted Myranda but Alayne was a bastard who was to be engaged to the heir of the Vale. It would be suspicious for her to seem displeased with the prospect of marrying a man with such high standing. 

“I am so pleased you like him, Alayne. I thought about it yesterday and I decided I cannot be mad at you at all for marrying him even if I had hoped to snatch him for myself.” Myranda smiled sweetly and Alayne felt a great burden falling off her heart. _So, she does not resent me for Littlefinger’s plans_. “Do you think Harry will be victorious and crown you his Queen of Love and Beauty?” Myranda chuckled. 

Alayne looked at her, surprised.

“There will be eight champions, Randa, not one. And they will not be crowning anyone. Even if they were, I imagine if all highborn ladies would be deeply offended if a bastard is crowned,” she said carefully.

“Oh, come now, dear, I only joke, I have heard more about Sweetrobin’s Winged Knights than I care for. And stop being silly, you are hardly an ordinary bastard. Petyr Baelish rules the Vale in all but name.”

 _He does indeed_ , Alayne thought, _yet it is not enough. He always craves more and will not be satisfied until he rules the whole world._ She shuddered, suddenly cold.

“I do not know who might be victorious. Many of the knights attending are famous for their valor.” Alayne attempted to steer the conversation back to the safe matter of the tourney.

“A knight with great valor and a long lance is what I need,” Myranda chuckled and Alayne blushed- her friend always said the most improper things. “I care not for the boring old knights of the Vale. I do hope there is a mystery knight attending. But not one of those who pretends to be mystery knights while wearing the colors of their House. A true mystery knight, like the one at the tourney in Harrenhal in the year of the false spring.” Alayne looked at her confused- her friend had never seemed to be one for romance.

“I always thought that tourney to be quite the tragic event.” _The Starks had gone South and melted in the sun and the realm had bled for it._

“Oh, but why? Do you not secretly wish for a dragon prince to steal you away like Rhaegar Targaryen stole Lyanna Stark?” Alayne’s heart skipped a beat. _She knows_. She tried to calm herself. _Maybe she just suspects_. Myranda was still smiling but her eyes were lit with something different than laughter.

“I am not a noble Northerner. And the Targaryens are all dead,” Alayne blurted but her voice rang false even in her own ears. Her heart was racing in her chest and she tried to still her face and hide her thoughts like she had learned a long time ago at a place much crueler than this one.

“No, you do not _**look**_ like a Stark at all, do you?” Myranda said thoughtfully. It was not a question. “But you are wrong about the Targaryens as it seems. A raven flew in late yesternight. Two ravens, in fact. One bearing news from the South and the other from the North. It is why my father and Lord Baelish left the feast early.”

Alayne’s eyes widened. _What news of the North?_ she wished to ask. But she was much too afraid to voice her question. Myranda might just be suspecting. Alayne was not stupid enough to confirm her doubts.

“What do you mean the Targaryens are not dead?” she asked instead “Is it the princess? Rhaegar’s sister?” Littlefinger had told her of the rumors fisherman and sailors were telling in Gulltown. 

“The raven from Storm’s End did not speak of a woman,” Randa shook her head. “No, it is the young prince, the one everyone thought was killed by Gregor Clegane. _**Aegon**_. He holds the Stormlands.”

Alayne was shocked at that. _Wild cards entering the game. Petyr will not be happy._

“You are jesting?” She decided to use the situation as an excuse to bid Randa goodbye. She needed to talk to Petyr. She needed to know what had happened in the North… And she needed to tell him Myranda **knew**. “I must go and see my father now. He must be horrified in the face of such dire news.” If a Targaryen secured the throne the Vale would not be in the most favorable of positions. Jon Arryn had been the first one to raise his sword against the Targaryens dynasty in Robert’s Rebellion. 

She rose, kissed Randa’s cheek and hurried, anxious to leave. When she was at the door, her friend called out to her.

“You are my friend, Alayne. I wish you no harm. I will keep your secret as if it was mine.”

Alayne’s hear skipped a beat once again. She was too afraid to speak and left the chambers without another word, pretending Myranda had said nothing.

Once outside, she leaned on the cold wall and started shaking. _Randa knows. I must tell Petyr._ He would know what to do. He would take care of it. 

_Like he took care of Ser Dontos,_ a voice in her head called. _A bag of dragons buys a man’s silence for a while but a well-placed quarrel buys it forever,_ Littlefinger’s voice rang in her head. Myranda had little use for gold, she would not be easily bought.

Alayne tried to collect herself. Her limbs were heavy with fear as she moved towards the Lord Protector’s chambers. Her steps echoed in the empty hall. Terror echoed in her heart. _Myranda is my friend. But is she? Could I trust her with such a secret? I thought Margery was my friend and it turned out the Tyrells used me all the same._

She knocked on the door to her father’s rooms, a heavy decision weighting in her heart. 

Ser Lothor Brune was the one to invite her to enter. Petyr waved him off with a sharp gesture. His face wore his usual unreadable expression but Alayne had learned to notice other details now. She had learned to truly **see**. A barely visible shake of his hands, a twitch of his mouth when he smiled at her and the fact that he was still in the black-and-yellow doublet he wore at the feast the night before told her more than his eyes ever could. He was troubled. 

“Alayne, what a welcome sight your beauty is in a day as dark as this one.” He spread his arms and she reluctantly moved to embrace him.

“I heard that a raven brought distressing news late into the night, father,” she answered as his hands moved to touch her face.

“Lord Nestor cannot be trusted to keep a secret from his daughter, I see.” His smile did not reach his eyes. His fingers were caressing her neck now, she wanted to jump away but he would not like it so she stayed unmoving, waiting for him to stop. He always stopped.

“A Targaryen has taken Storm’s End?” She did not dare ask about the North. He would tell her if he wanted her to know and if he did not, there was little use in asking him. 

His hands fell next to his body and he stepped away as if suddenly aware of himself again. Alayne fought the urge to smile. Not a muscle on her face moved.

“Yes, a mysterious Targaryen suddenly appears after all these years without anyone so much as suspecting of his survival. This has the scent of Varys all over it.” She had been wrong. He was not simply troubled. He was truly upset. A Targaryen heir did not fit in Petyr’s plans. It did not matter if the boy was a true dragon or a mummer’s farce. If people believed him to be Aegon the Conqueror reborn, that’s who he would be. _Perceptions are what controls men_. “Not only that, Jaime Lannister’s army has crossed the Trident. With his sister on trial and his uncle dead, one would expect him to be marching on King’s Landing.”

Littlefinger was a creature of schemes and secrets, she knew. He had no great name, no gold of his own, no armies. His power lay in his ability to predict the actions of men and to outmaneuver great lords, making unpredictable moves and throwing the world into chaos. That was the only thing that made him a significant player in the game. And now his opponents were making moves as chaotic as his own. It is hard to predict your enemies’ next step when it made no logical sense. He could adapt, Alayne knew, but it would take time. He was too cautious to move without more information.

“Ser Jaime?” Alayne’s heart was gripped by terror. _They cannot reach me here_. “Surely the Lords of the Vale will not sit by and let him move against them.” _They cannot reach me here. I am safe._

“They wanted to call the banners and attack him. Blind fools. I barely managed to convince them it is not the time to move. The Lannister army has set camp; they are not moving towards the Vale.” _And you do not want to lose your influence, which would happen if Bronze Yohn was to head the army of the Vale._

“You wish to wait and see what the outcome of the conflict in the Capitol will be?” She phrased it as a question but she knew. She had seen the golden rose stamped on one of his letters. He did not know she had seen it. 

“The Lannisters and the Tyrells will bleed themselves and that will be the time to move. You will be Lady Hardyng by then.” _And Sweetrobin will be dead_ , she finished in her mind. She was not blind. She wished she was but she was not. She had pretended for too long that she did not know. She had tried to convince herself it was too cruel. But now she could see it. His whole plan relied on Sweetrobin dying and her becoming the Lady of the Vale. Then Harry would be leading the army and she would be whispering in his ears with the poisonous words of Littlefinger.

“Stannis has fallen in the North.” He said then. Relief flooded her. The bloodied white wolf in her dreams had given her a fright. But it was Stannis, it was not Jon. “The Boltons still hold Winterfell. Soon something will need to be done about them.” She was barely listening to him now. She heard a bird singing a sweet song outside the window. She moved towards the sound. _How did it survive in the cold?_

“Alayne?” She turned to face Petyr once again. “Should you not be getting ready for the tourney? Or is there anything else you wish to talk about?”

_Myranda knows._

“No, father.” She looked at him, her face collected once again. “If you will excuse me, I need to look presentable for my husband-to-be.”

She was afraid he would demand she kissed him goodbye like he often did, but he nodded and she hurried towards the door. 

Once in her room, she felt she could finally breathe again. She was happy to be alone, thoughts racing through her mind with such speed she was unable to form one whole notion. _Myranda knows._ She hoped she had not made a grave error by deciding to trust the older girl. _Even if I did not trust her, I could hardly kill her, which I would be doing if I tell Petyr._  
She heard a bird outside her window. _Is it the same one?_ She moved and opened the window. Cool air burst into her room but it was refreshing after the horrible morning she had had. A little grey sparrow flew in and landed on her bed.  
Alayne felt her lips smile despite her chaotic thoughts. She moved towards the bird who was pecking at something on her bed.  
A piece of paper. 

The bird flew further away when Alayne moved to grab the letter.

Her heart skipped a beat for a third time that morning as she read the words.

 _To Sansa Stark_ , it read…


	4. Bran

It was always dark under the hill. There was no day and no night. Only the darkness. Sometimes Bran would go into the trees or slip into a beast for a day or two and he would bask in the light, forgetting about his broken body and forgetting about the darkness. But the darkness was there when he opened his eyes and it was there when he closed them. Bran did not fear it. He delighted in the sweet oblivion that the darkness brought with it. It swept over his body, immersing him in its vacuum. Darkness was not his enemy. He welcomed it. He embraced it. _Just like Lord Brynden told me to._

It was always quiet under the hill. There was no laughter and no screams. Lord Brynden spoke rarely, the Children spoke even less. Bran had not seen Meera and Jojen, save through the eyes of Hodor. And when he saw them, they did not speak. Jojen was always sleeping and Meera was always crying silently by his side. Bran had forgotten what her voice sounded like. Even Summer made no sound when he was under the hill. He was as silent as his white brother when he stepped into the cave. But Bran embraced the silence too, just as he embraced the darkness.

It was in the darkness and silence that Bran found the true extent of his power. When his sight failed him and his ears were of no use, his third eye opened. _I needed to be free of it all before my powers could grow._

“Your skill is getting stronger with each day, Brandon Stark,” Lord Brynden told him. Bran could not see his face because there were no torches lit in the cavern where they sat their thrones, but he thought the ancient greenseer sounded pleased.

 _More than you can ever know._ Bran could slip into the skins of five beasts at once now and control them with barely an effort. He could warg into Summer when the wolf was hundreds of leagues away. He could go into the trees and seek a certain moment in the past. Lord Brynden had shown him all of this and more. But there was another skill that awakened in the darkness. Or maybe the darkness birthed it. Bran was not concerned with the origin of the power. He hid that skill by Lord Brynden and the Children. Bran had no reason to hide his gift yet he did not tell a soul about it. _They would take it away if they knew._ And he was not about to let them take it. It was the one connection to his siblings he had left.

He could **feel** them. He could feel them all. He felt them in his chest and in his head like echoes and it was not connected to the greensight. It was something different altogether. _They are my pack and I can feel them like Summer can feel his brothers and sister._ At least the ones that were still amongst the living.

“Maester Luwin always said I learn quickly. Quicker than all my brothers and sister. Even Robb and he was the eldest,” Bran’s voice trembled slightly at the mention of his brother’s name. The one brother he never felt. Bran closed his eyes. It made no difference if they were opened or closed in the darkness. At least this way, he could pretend there was still light.

Bran had tried to reach out to feel Robb once. But there was nothing. Only death and desolation in his chest was filling the place where he knew he should be feeling his big brother. It had been painful. More painful than anything Bran had endured in his life. More painful than the fall and more agonising than waking up without the use of his legs. More sorrowful than dreaming of his father’s death and more grievous than opening his eyes to find it was as true in reality as it had been in his wretched dream. 

Bran had feared his brother’s faith ever since a dream he had dreamed when they were traveling North. Yet he had not wanted to believe. But he had not been able to escape the truth of the gaping hole in his chest when he had tried to reach and feel his brother. He had gone into the weirwood then, hurting but desperate to know how his brother had fallen. He searched for days, trying to find the right moment and the right weirwood tree to look through. Finally, he had seen…

It had been so much worse than he had imagined. What they had done to his beautiful lady mother and to Robb. _Horrible. Gruesome. Monstrous._ He had forgotten then that he was almost a man grown and he had cried as if he was a baby like Rickon. 

He had cried for his lady mother who had always worn the warmest of smiles and had smelled like home. He had cried about her beautiful red hair that he would never touch again. He had cried about the ugly gash in her throat and he had cried knowing in her death she had been alone- thinking all her children lost to her- the only one still living tightly gripped in golden clutches.

He had cried for his brother Robb who was always there in all of Bran’s memories from home. He had been a king and the North was mourning him but to Bran he had been a big brother, someone to teach him how to shoot an arrow and to keep him safe when a storm was raging outside the walls of Winterfell. _He was supposed to keep all of us safe. But there was no one to keep him safe._

Lord Brynden had told Bran no one can change the past but he had tried. Oh, how he had tried. He had jumped from moment to moment, from tree to tree shouting at the top of his lungs yet no one had heard more than the rustling of leaves. He had not cared if Lord Brynden would find out about his secret. _I needed to try and save them._

Yet he had changed nothing. No one had heard his screams and no one had heeded his warnings. He had seen it all play out the same. And he had seen what had happened to his lady mother after... _Worse than death…_

When he had returned back to his useless body, the darkness had welcomed him once more. Lord Brynden had not said a word and the hole in his body had hurt more than ever. Ever since, he had only reached out to feel his living siblings, attempting to forget the empty void right in the middle of his aching chest.

Jon was the closest to him. He could feel him at the Wall. He was full of worry and uncertainty and fear but he was Jon- the same Jon who had taught Bran how to ride his pony. Rickon was close too, only the sea separating them. Bran’s baby brother grew wilder by the day. He felt more beast now than a boy and he remembered little and less of what it was like to be part of the pack. But he was safe, Bran could feel it. His sister Sansa was further away South and there was barely anything left of her. She was a caged wolf covered in bird feathers, fear her constant companion. Arya was so far away that she felt almost out of reach. She was pretending not to be a wolf. Bran could feel the wolf was still in there waiting to be unleashed but he worried. 

Rickon had Osha to protect him and Jon had his men. His sisters were alone with no one to shield them from harm. He would not lose them. He would not have another hollow gap in him. _Robb is gone but I am still here and I will save them. I will be their knight, just like in the stories, just like I always dreamed. Only they will never know it._

He held one more secret hidden from Lord Brynden. _I could not change the past but I changed the present._ Even if Lord Brynden discovered what Bran had done, it could not be changed. It was done, it was in the past.

“The order of the Maesters holds knowledge,” Lord Brynden’s voice dragged Bran out of his thoughts. His eyes were still closed and he tried to remember what they had been speaking of. Lord Brynden continued, “but they hold even more ignorance. They lost the way long ago.”

A wolf howled into the night. _Summer? But he is so far away…_

He opened his eyes and saw only darkness. _It is always dark under the hill._

“What was the way they lost?” Bran asked but he never heard the answer to his question.

A sharp pain slit through his gut.

There was no blood. Not his blood anyway.

Panic surged his brain.

_No!_

He could feel Sansa and Arya. He could feel his baby brother. But when he reached out to feel Jon…

Emptiness.

_No!_

Lifeless grey eyes.

_Not Jon, please! He was supposed to be safe. It was Arya and Sansa that I needed to protect._

As hollow a void as the one Bran had felt when he had tried to reach out to Robb that one time.

_Don’t take him too!_

Someone screamed. _Was it me?_

_Jon whose eyes had always been so kind and sad._

Bran could feel something wet on his cheek. _Am I crying or is it raining under the hill?_

He needed to see. 

There was no weirwood tree in Castle Black so he could not use his greensight. It would take too long for Summer to run to the Wall. Desperate, Bran’s mind reached in the direction that he believed the Wall to be in. He grasped with all his strength and slit into the first skin he could sense. 

_He was flying above the wall, his dark wings soaring through the freezing wind. He looked down. Everything was burning. He could smell the blood and charred meat coming from the yard and stables of the castle. He flew lower, circling a broken tower._

_He could feel the heat, it surrounded him, it suffocated him. He could hear the screams now. Men, women, children… All burning or bleeding in the snow. He could hear the sounds of battle too._

_He flew closer to the yard, where the fiercest fight seemed to be. A massive man with white hair which was now smeared with blood was shouting at the wildlings to organise into some sort of formation. Across from him, men dressed all in black had created a line, their shields and swords were up._

_Bran sensed another presence near him. A large white raven flapped its wings and circled the yard following the black crow that Bran was in. **Lord Brynden… He knows.**_

_It did not matter. Bran needed to find his brother. He needed to know… He circled the yard, looking deeply into the burning hell beneath him._

_A giant lay dead in the snow, six men of the Night’s Watch dead around him._

_Bran looked frantically for his half-brother, flying as close to the battle as he dared. He could see neither Jon nor a body that looked like Jon. Only fire. It was as if the gods were punishing the Nights Watch. **No** , Bran though, **the gods of the North do not punish with fire, they punish with ice.** This was but the work of men._

_He circled the grounds once more, desperation sweeping over his wings and slowing their speed. The white raven followed him still._

_A sudden racket near one of the towers drew Bran’s attention. The fighting there had seized without him noticing. A slim woman stepped out of the Tower and the fires began to burn twice as fiercely. The woman’s fair face seemed to reflect the light and enhance it somehow. She was beautiful yet terrifying._

_Another figure stepped out from behind her, taller, draped in black. **Jon. It’s Jon. He is not dead.** Relief flooded Bran and he landed on an alcove nearby, his eyes never leaving his half-brother in fear that he might fall to the ground bleeding. **How did he survive? I felt him die, I felt him dead!**_

_It was his brother and it was not. The man before him bore a resemblance to the boy Bran had grown up with but he was different somehow. A desolate sense of death surrounded him, as dark as the cloak that draped his shoulders. The few movements he made were far more elegant than Jon’s had ever been. And he **felt** so different. A dreadful inkling crept into his mind. **Did he survive? Or is this something else before me?**_

_“Behold your King!” The red woman’s trembling voice sounded around the yard somehow carrying over the shouting and the clashing of metal. It took a few moments, some of the men had not realized yet what was happening. Silence slowly swept over the grounds like a wave._

_The white raven circled the men and landed on the red woman’s shoulder._

_“King,” the bird croaked._

_Suddenly Jon turned his head towards Bran, grey eyes catching blue. **No** , Bran thought, **not blue. He cannot see me. He can only see a bird.**_

_“Bran,” Jon said._

Suddenly, Bran was yanked back into his own broken body as if a rope was tied around his middle and someone pulled it.

His eyes opened expecting to find darkness once more and craving to forget the burning hell that had been Castle Black. But it was bright in the cave, brighter than Bran had ever seen it. Bran looked wildly around him, his eyes wide and full of confusion. The Children had stopped lighting torches in the cavern where he and Lord Brynden dreamed on their weirwood thrones. Only when Bran needed to be fed the weirwood paste, Leaf came carrying a single flame as if afraid more would disturb the darkness.

Yet now there were a hundred torches lit all around the massive chamber. _It is not dark under the hill anymore._

Lord Brynden was looking at him, his eye unblinking and full of knowledge. _Does he know of my secret? Will he talk to me of what we saw?_

Leaf appeared in front of Bran as if out of nowhere. He had neither seen nor heard her approach him. A smile was blooming on her small face, her teeth as sharp as daggers. She carried a cup in her clawed hands- the weirwood paste looked redder than the last time.

“Eat.” Leaf said.

Bran had so many questions to ask but his mind felt numb so he just ate. With each taste, the weirwood paste became sweeter and Bran’s mind became calmer. A pleasant feeling started spreading through his body and he felt warm again. He began to forget all the questions he wanted to ask Lord Brynden. He could not remember what had him so worried. _Why was I troubled? There is no new hole in my chest. Jon is well._ There was something about Jon’s eyes but Bran could not quite remember what it was. His eyes grew heavier and so he closed them once again. He could hear Lord Brynden’s voice but he was not speaking to Bran.

“It has happened. The Prince has finally been born.” Bran did not understand. Was Lord Brynden speaking of him? He was a prince. The prince of Winterfell. At least, he had been when there was still Winterfell. He opened his mouth to say the North had no Kind and so he was not a prince anymore but he stopped midway deciding he was too tired to speak. He could tell them later.

“Soon we will sing the Great Song at last,” Leaf’s voice held an emotion Bran struggled to recognise. 

He heard nothing more because his mind grew heavier and he drifted off to sleep.

“Not a prince…” he mumbled.

_He was in the Godswood. Snow covered everything. **Winter has come.**_

_He looked down and saw two paws covered in grey fur. **A wolf dream** , he thought. _

_But it felt different. Summer was nowhere near Winterfell. And Bran could think as if he was still human._

_He tried to lift himself off the ground but his hind legs did not move. **I am as broken in my dream as I am in my body. The broken wolf.** His eyes began to sting. **Can wolves cry?**_

_Something moving towards him caught his eyes. A large white form was approaching through the trees, barely visible against the snowy canvas. He was close enough for Bran to recognise now. **Ghost? No…**_

_“Jon,” Bran said instead. **Said? Wolves do not speak.**_

_“Bran,” his brother answered. **Or maybe they do here.**_

_“Are you dead, Jon?” His brother’s red eyes met his and there was anguish in them. He did not answer._

_“I need my pack.” Jon’s voice was low and there was a sternness in it that Bran did not remember._

_“I cannot come back, Jon,” Bran said and he felt an inexplicable fear that Jon could somehow reach and grab his body and drag him back South. He needed to learn so much still. And there was only pain south of the Wall. There was no darkness and no weirwood paste. “Not yet. I need to learn.” He felt like a child again, pleading with his brother to not tell their lord father that he was climbing. **Only, I will never climb again.**_

_“Sansa and Arya are alive. Rickon too but he is moving now.” Jon spoke without acknowledging what Bran had just said._

_“You can feel them as well?” Bran was surprised. He had thought himself the only one._

_“You are my pack,” he said simply. “I need you back.”_

_“I have… I have done something, Jon.” He could tell Jon. Jon would never hurt them even if he was different now. **He is part of the pack.** “I have told… someone where the girls are. They will be safe soon.” Or so Bran hoped. He hoped the monster that lived in his mother’s body could still remember her daughters. **She is still Mother. She will remember.**_

_Suddenly, the white wolf turned around and started walking away from Bran. **No! Too soon.**_

_“What are you going to do?” Bran’s shout echoed in the empty Godswood._

_“To find them.”_

_And then Bran was alone in the snow._


	5. Alayne II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She had walked through suffering and pain and she had drunk from the cup of bitterness and grief. And she still stood when so many have fallen in the war. She could do this.

Alayne’s heart was beating wildly in her chest as she stood from her bed. Her eyes wandered around the room unseeing as her numb fingers crumbled the note in her hands. It was all too much to take in. Different emotions raged in her chest as she tried to gain her self-possession back. She could not think of it now. She could not trust herself to keep her composure if she did.

_I need to prepare for the tourney_ , she thought absentmindedly. She walked towards her dresser, her legs as heavy as if they were made of lead. Her skin was clammy with sweat and her hands were shaking slightly. She felt as if she possessed no control over her own body. **Your sister lives.** The words echoed in her head and made her dizzy. _Alayne has no sister, she thought. Sansa had a sister but she was lost. Dead most likely, the Queen said._ , Questions and doubts rushed back into her head. _Could it be true? Has Arya survived?_ , 

She tried to push all thoughts of Sansa’s sister from her head. She was Alayne. She had no siblings and the note was a lie. A horrible jest made by some heartless fool. She grabbed the dress Petyr had gifted her with and began dressing. She was Alayne. _But I am Sansa too._ The little sparrow fluttered near and landed on top of the massive looking glass. Alayne looked at the bird in surprise, she had forgotten about it as she was reading and re-reading the note. 

The looking glass was another gift from Petyr, much like everything she had. She knew she ought to shoo the bird away because its little claws were scratching the valuable glass but she could not bring herself to care about it in this moment.

**I was sent by your family.**

Alayne had no family but Petyr Baelish. Sansa had no family but Jon. _And Arya, if the note is to be believed._ She could almost hear Petyr’s voice ringing in her mind. _It is a lie, Alayne. You cannot trust a nameless man with hidden intentions. You need to know a man’s desires and motivations, or you cannot control him. And without control, there is no trust, sweetling._

Oh, but how she wished the note to be true. She would hold Arya for hours, she would apologise for all that Sansa, that foolish little girl, had done. When they were little Arya had often tried to get her older sister to play with her but as they grew Sansa had declared those games unfit for a lady. Arya had cried when Sansa stopped running around the castle with her. She had begged her older sister to play with her and even attempted to bribe her with sweets but Sansa had not yielded. Her little sister even tried to convince her to play at swords with her once but Sansa had sneered and announced that Arya would never become a Great Lady like their Mother. Alayne regretted all that now and wished she could go back in time and slap little Sansa Stark. If she ever saw her sister again, she would be different. She would be a good sister. She would play all the games that Arya liked without caring about her dresses getting muddied. She would even play at swords with Arya, if only to make her sister forgive her and love her once more. 

She wished she could believe Arya was alive and she could get the opportunity to redeem her past behavior. But if she chose to believe that her sister was alive, she would have to trust the rest of it as well and she could not think of that now. _It is a lie._

Alayne began to plait her long dark hair with her trembling hands. Her eyes darted towards the crumbled piece of paper near the foot of her bed once more. She felt as if its words were seared into her mind. She tore her eyes from the note struggling to keep her mind on her task. She ought to get ready and quickly lest Petyr would send someone to escort her. She could not be seen in such a state or everyone would know that something was amiss. Alayne’s quivering fingers slipped once again and her curls fell from the intricate plait she was trying to make.

She began combing her hair anew. She could see that her roots were no longer chestnut like the rest of her curls; they were auburn like Sansa’s hair had been. She needed to braid it in a way that would hide them. Her slim fingers began working their way through the thick locks, smoothing and separating them from one another.

_Could it be Jon who sent someone to help me and take me to him?_ They had never been close as children and it pained her to admit it had been Sansa’s fault much more than Jon’s. She had been polite with him but she had never admired him as much as she had Robb and she had never given him more attention than was absolutely necessary. After she had turned four and she had been told what a ‘bastard’ was, she never let him play her knight again and she had explained to him with all seriousness that a bastard could never be a knight. Her cheeks burned red with shame at the memory. But he was still her half-brother and they have lost all of their other siblings. He must long to see her as much as she longed to see him. He was a Lord Commander if she was to believe Myranda’s words and he had the power and the men to save her if he had somehow found out where she was hidden. But if it was Jon, why would the letter not say so. Maybe he was afraid that his man might be discovered and did not want anyone to know of his involvement because the Nights Watch took no part in the quibbles of Lords and Kings.

_Could it be Mother’s uncle, the Blackfish? Tyrion said he survived._ Alayne dared not think what her great uncle had survived lest her mask would break for good. _He is wanted by the Crown, like Sansa._ He would not want his enemies to know he still lived and was in the Vale or the Riverlands. _The songs say he is a great warrior. He can protect me. We would escape North, him, Arya and me. We would go to Jon. I only hope they can both forgive me. We could go home. Petyr says it is in ruins but we will rebuild_. At the thought of going home, her heart fluttered in her chest like a bird trying to escape. 

Her fingers steadied somewhat as she began plating another section of hair. _I would have no need to dye it when I go North._

_Stop!_ she almost shouted it out loud. She was being as stupid as Sansa had been. She was safe in the Vale, surrounded by knights who hated Lannisters. _Yet not one of those knights joined my brother against them_. The armies of the Vale could have turned the war and maybe Robb and her Lady Mother would have lived still. But Alayne did not have it in her heart to blame or hate them. Cowards and green boys as they were, the knights of the Vale did not hit her with their mailed fists. They did not strip her in the hall of the Gates of the Moon. No one threatened to take her head. Petyr kept her safe and all he wanted was her kisses. _And to marry me off to Harry the Heir so he can keep his power_. But if the note was true he was as bad as any Lannister. _And much worse than some of them. Lord Tyrion never treated Sansa with anything but kindness. He looked at her with lust, same as Petyr looks at me now but he never touched her or made her give him kisses._

**Littlefinger held a knife to Lord Stark’s throat.**

Alayne’s hands began shaking more violently. _One lock on top of the other_ , she thought with determination. The tourney would begin shortly. She should have been ready and out of her chambers by now. She would not have time to go to Sweetrobin and check how he was before the jousting began. _They would have sent for me if he is having another fit._

**He was to be sent to the Nights Watch. Arrangements were made.**

_Stop thinking of it. It is a lie. You need to get ready._ She tied her braided hair with a thin leather cord and began carefully pinning it on top of her head, all while trying to control her hands.

**Ilyn Paine’s swung the sword on Joffrey’s order and Joffrey gave the order on a whisper from Littlefinger. Lord Baelish needed Ned Stark to die.**

One of the pins scratched her scalp but Alayne hardly felt it. _It is a lie. It is a lie. I escaped. I am safe._

Blood trickled down her brow from where she had scratched herself with the pin. She wiped it and looked at her fingers in surprise. _I ought to calm myself. I cannot go out there and let them see me like this._

Alayne looked at herself in the large looking glass, her eyes barely seeing her image. The little sparrow was still on top of it, its little neck bent in curiosity. The dress Petyr had given her was dark green and made from the finest silks of Oldtown. Petyr had ordered it specially for the tourney. It was as fine a gown she had worn as Lady Lannister and much finer than anything she had owned when she had been stupid little Sansa Stark.

**He wanted power and Ned Stark was in the way.**

Her eyes were dry, she had no more tears to shed, but she could feel her heart swelling with grief as her mind kept recalling how Eddard Stark’s feet had twitched when his head had rolled down the steps of Baelor’s Sept. She felt bile rising in her throat and felt a sudden urge to tear the beautiful gown from her body and burn it along with all the gifts Petyr had given her.

She looked at herself one last time. She had donned her smiling mask and her face gave away nothing. She had to be Alayne inside and out today. No one could know of the storm that ravaged her soul. 

Alayne pushed her feelings deep inside herself and locked them in a cage along with Sansa Stark and her memories. A bright smile decorated her lips as she walked out of the castle and headed to the tourney grounds. _A Lady’s armor is her courtesy. Alayne is a bastard but the castle expects a lady so that is what I must be. A lady pretending to be a bastard pretending to be a lady. Do I even remember who I am now?_

A cold hand grabbed her wrist and she found herself facing the one man she would have liked to avoid today. _Show nothing!_

“You look beautiful.” Petyr’s voice was as soft as velvet but his eyes were made of glass. “More beautiful than any maiden I have ever seen.” Others could mistake it for a fatherly praise but she could hear the lust in his words. “Even Cersei Lannister in her prime could not match your fairness, Alayne.” 

He pulled her in a paternal embrace and she fell into his arms helpless, unable to push away because he would not like that and he might see through her mask. She felt like a puppet whose wires were being pulled from above. Like she did not own her body. _But I do not,_ she thought bitterly, _he has all the control. He owns me, body and soul. The man who murdered my father._ She wanted it to be a lie but she could not deny the truth of it in that moment- trapped in his embrace with his minty breath in her ear and his hands squeezing the small of her back ever so slightly. She was not safe. She had just switched one captor for another. _His sigil is a mockingbird but he is a snake if I ever saw one._ She had escaped the den of lions to end up in a snake’s nest.

“Thank you, father.” Her voice sounded small and weak in her own ears. If she did not manage to get a hold of herself at once, she was finished. “Your praise is too high. But it is your gift that draws the eye more than my own beauty.” She smiled sweetly at him and felt a dagger twist in her heart. _I watched as my own father was killed and now I call the man who betrayed him ‘Father’._

“More beautiful than Catelyn ever was.” He whispered it so quietly and she did not know if he meant for her to hear that or if it slipped his lips without intent. _Did you kill her too? Did you plan the Red Wedding with the likes of Tywin Lannister and Walder Frey_ , she wanted to shout. _No, he would never have hurt Catelyn Tully knowingly. He craved power and he craved my mother. The only two things he ever wanted. And Father had them both. So, he killed him._ She could imagine him then- scheming and planning how to rid himself of honorable Lord Stark. He might have even thought that Catelyn Tully would fall back into his arms once the war was done. _But even Petyr Baelish cannot see the future, despite what he would have his enemies believe. My mother died regardless of his schemes and I was the closest he could ever get to her._

Even if she had lived, Catelyn Stark would never have gone to Petyr. She had been a Great Lady who would never fall into the arms of a man like Petyr Baelish. She had loved Sansa’s Lord Father. _But did she? How can I know? I was one-and-ten when I last saw her. I was a little more than a child and I knew the mother but not the woman. I had hoped she would confide in me once I am a woman grown and flowered but all I had when I was bleeding was Cersei Lannister._

Petyr released her from his embrace reluctantly and Alayne felt her hands beginning to shake once again at the sight of his practiced smile and empty eyes. Suddenly she wanted to run back into her rooms and hide under the furs like she had done as a child. She wanted to forget about the monster that had killed her father. But she had not had the luxury to do as she pleased in many years and she knew now that she could never escape the monsters because the world was full of them. So, she slowed her breathing and stilled her face. _Smile!_ she commanded her face. It was her only shield and her only weapon. 

“Where is Sweetrobin, Father? I have not had the chance to visit his chambers this morning?” Her voice was sweet and innocent, the one she always used with Petyr. The one he liked. 

“He has thrown another fit, I’m afraid.” Whether he was happy or annoyed by that was hard to tell. His voice was void of all emotion. “He has locked his room and refuses to come out as long as Harrold Hardyng is here.” 

“Why was I not summoned? I would have been able to talk him into coming out.” Sweetrobin had been so excited about the tourney and his Winged Knights the day before. He had reminded her of little Tommen when Ser Loras had joined his Kingsguard.

“Let the boy stay in his chambers. I have already excused his absence with the Lords of the Vale.” His voice was just loud enough so no one would think him whispering in secret but much too low for anyone around them to hear. “This tourney is not about him, Alayne.” 

Of course not. Petyr wanted the Lords to see her as their hostess, as the Lady presiding over the tourney, so they would come to accept her as the future Lady of the Vale. _Perceptions are as powerful as gold and armies._ Petyr wanted them to perceive her as the consort of their sovereign and to love her before they knew her true name and station. Her grip on the Vale would be much tighter if it was twice secured through the love of the Lords and through her name and station. And Petyr had no reason to doubt his own grip on her loyalties. _He holds the most desired pawn in all the Seven Kingdoms. The power he so craves ought to look within his grasp at last._ And it would have been had her eyes not been opened by a crumbled note written by a nameless man.

“Of course, Father.” She would not argue. It was not the time and place. But she would have to speak to Maester Coleman again and reveal more than mere hints to him this time. She could not leave the Vale without warning anyone of the danger that hung above her cousin’s head like a sword. _Leave? Have I made my decision then? To leave the safety of the Vale and its knights and to put my trust into an unnamed man who might wish to sell me back to the Lannisters…_

“Go on now, sweetling.” Petyr caressed her cheek with affection and she could see the emotion reflecting in his usually empty eyes. “You must charm Harrold if we are to see our plans fulfilled.”

Suddenly she heard the Queen’s voice once again. _Tears aren’t a woman’s only weapon… her best weapon is between her legs. _ Alayne had no doubt that Petyr would have her use all of her weapons in his pursuit of power. He would not sell her to the Lannisters but he would sell her nonetheless. _He would have me whore myself without a second thought if it meant Harry would become his puppet too. How can I think myself safe?_

She curtseyed and smiled under her lashes at him, just as he liked and hurried off under the pretense she needed to find Myranda. Her mind was overrun by her conflicting thoughts and it was empty all at once as she walked past the stables towards the tourney grounds. Her eyes could hardly see where she stepped. She had to choose between attempting to escape with a stranger, who she did not know if she should trust at all, and staying where she was, with the murderer of her father, pretending to be safe and being a pawn in the hands of men once more. _It is not really a choice at all._

Alayne almost tripped over her own feet when a new realisation hit her. She had blamed herself for years. She had thought that it was all her fault, going to the Queen and telling her of her Lord Father’s abrupt decision to leave the Capitol. And it had turned out it had always been outside of her or anyone else’s hands, controlled by master schemers like Littlefinger and Varys. _They are all liars here… and every one better than you_ , Lord Tyrion had told her. Yet she had believed herself able to read Lord Baelish. She had thought herself capable of looking through his lies and see his true intentions.

She felt as stupid and naïve as ever. She had seen what Petyr was capable of, and he had shared his thoughts and plans with her more than any other living soul. _How have I not seen his crimes? Have I been so blind as to truly not see he is behind it all or did I shut my eyes willingly, wrapping myself in false safety?_

Her House’s faith had been decided the moment Eddard Stark and his two daughters set foot in King’s Landing. 

_Or maybe even before that._

Alayne felt her dress too tight around her chest.

She could recall Lysa Arryn’s hysterical screams as clear as day.

The air was too thick and her lungs were burning as she struggled to breathe.

_You told me to put the tears in Jon’s wine and I did_ , she had said.

Petyr had planned it all from the beginning. He had lured Lord Stark into the Capitol with a single purpose…

Suddenly Alayne’s body crashed into someone. Her eyes darted up quickly and saw a handsome dark haired man. The smell of horses filled her mind. The face of the stable hand seemed oddly familiar. She bowed her head quickly afraid her mask had cracked and he could see her distress. She begged his apologies and hurried away as quickly as possible trying not to draw more eyes towards herself.

By the time she reached the tourney grounds, she had managed to collect herself and don her smiling, innocent mask back on. Her mind was finally clear and she felt almost serene as she climbed the steps to the dais, squeezing the grey handkerchief as if her life depended on it. Myranda was already there, laughing at something Lord Nestor had just said. Alayne sat herself down, feeling glad that she was invited to sit here and not with Petyr. She did not know if she would be able to stay composed if she needed to sit and converse nonchalantly with him all day.

The seats around her were full near bursting and there were servants and common people, standing on their feet around the dais, pushing each other in their strive for a better view.

The first two contestants, Ser Templeton and Ser Liam- a hedge knight in service to House Royce, were already lining up and mounting their horses. Alayne stood up. Hundreds of eyes turned to her. She could see Petyr’s face across from her, on the dais opposite of where she sat. His eyes were full of hesitation and confusion. This was not part of his instructions. I have finally managed to surprise him. She knew it was wrong but she felt a little proud at that thought. She could tell him later that she had thought it of it on the spot. He would be pleased with her initiative. She could almost hear his voice telling her how she did well and how she looked a queen and not a bastard in the eyes of every man who looked at her. It mattered not. She cared for the eyes of only one man amongst the hundreds.

The note had said her nameless savior would be watching her at the tourney. She ought to give him a sign so he would know.

_Smile. A lady should always know her courtesies._ She smiled her most beautiful smile at the crowd. Most of the Lords smiled back at her. A few of the standing people shouted in approval. They were not sure what was happening. All they could see was the Lord Protector’s beautiful daughter smiling at them. 

She gathered all the courage she had in her heart. _I never was the brave one. It was always Robb and Arya who were fearless. Even little Rickon was daring than me._ But she had survived Kings Landing and she was not the same girl that she had been. She had walked through suffering and pain and she had drunk from the cup of bitterness and grief. And she still stood when so many have fallen in the war. She could do this.

“May the tourney begin.” Her voice was melodic and she could almost convince herself that there was joy in it.

Highborn and commoners alike cheered as Sansa Stark threw the grey handkerchief in high in the air, hoping her savior could see it.

_I shall be a pawn no more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: Sansa is struggling with her identity here, hence the reason why her thoughts jump from first person to third and back and why she sometimes thinks of Sansa as a separate person and sometimes as herself.
> 
> Hope you like it. 
> 
> As always, any input is welcome. :)


	6. Speaker to Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cold killed quietly. People said one moment you were breathing and the next your heart was lifeless- and at the last moment, just before the gods claimed you, you felt the warmth of summer one last time, your heart as free and joyous as that of a newborn babe. Death by fire was much more dreadful, he knew know.

If someone had told him two moons ago that he would still be freezing his balls once he was on the Southern side of the Wall, Tormund would have laughed at that man’s face. Yet here he stood, south of the bloody Wall, shaking so fiercely that his member was like to fall off. He would give his left eye for a fire and a warm pallet but didn’t seem likely he would be getting either tonight. He would count himself lucky if he got two hours of sleep in the snow. 

He cursed under his breath quietly enough for even Val, who walked closest to him in the column, to miss it. He would sooner cut off his right arm than show his weakness in front of his people. They had survived much worse; they would survive this too.

They were finally south of the Wall, so far south that they could not even see the bloody thing anymore. If he hadn’t known, he would not have noticed any difference. It was still bloody cold and the only thing he could see was still the cursed snow. _I was born in the snow, seems like I am to die in the snow too_. And he had dreamed of sun and heat and wanton Southron women, the fool of a man he was. 

He cursed again, louder this time. This was the land the crows had tried to keep them out of for thousands of years. Half his people had died trying to come to this frozen wasteland, as cold and forsaken as the true North. _But the Others don’t come with the frost on this side of the Wall_ , Tormund thought and he knew that he and his people would climb the Wall a hundred times over for that reason alone. That was the true reason they had left their homes and their lands, risking their lives and trusting their children into the hands of their sworn enemies- to escape the dead walking in the night. It mattered very little now. The crows had failed, they were all dead now, their corpses burned to ash by the Red Witch and Tormund’s people had crossed onto the safe side of the Wall.

Yet, by some jape from the Gods, they were now led by a boy, younger than Tormund’s own daughter, who had come back from the dead. _He died, aye, and he came back but his eyes are not blue and blood still flows through his body_. The Red Witch had called him **the King** but he was no king of Tormund. He followed the crow nonetheless. King or no king he had cheated death and that was more than Tormund could say of most men.

Tormund still dreamt of the night Jon Snow had walked back from death and he was not sure whether it was a good dream or a night terror. Tormund had raged when he saw his people’s last hope for peace crumble in the snow along with the boy’s body. Everything after that was a blur in his memory- the rusty smell of blood mixed with the choking stink of burning flesh; the clash of swords; the screams of dying men. But what he remembered most vividly was the fire. Damned be that giant, with his last remaining strength he had managed to rip out a torch from the wall of the castle and had thrown it into a cluster of black brothers, hitting the wooden stables instead. 

All his life Tormund had though cold was the deadliest of enemies. He had been wrong. Cold killed quietly. People said one moment you were breathing and the next your heart was lifeless- and at the last moment, just before the gods claimed you, you felt the warmth of summer one last time, your heart as free and joyous as that of a newborn babe. Death by fire was much more dreadful, he knew know. North of the Wall, he had seen no fires but the pyres that the free folk built for the dead lest they come back in the night. He had seen his King burn when the Red Witch tried to sacrifice him to her Red God but that had been nothing compared to the night Jon Snow had risen. Tormund had seen the horror in the eyes of the men burning around him that night and he would remember it ‘till the light went out of his own eyes one day. He would take frost over fire any day.

It was near dark and they had been walking half a day without a break when his son, Toregg came to him.

“It is dusk. Why is he not stopping for the night, father?” His face was red from the cold and frost covered his beard. _Gods, the boy is as thick as a Thenn_ , Tormund thought.

“It is not like I tell him when to walk and when to stop, you oaf.” He did not try to hide the irritation from his voice. He knew as little as the rest of them. Yet Torreg, Munda, and even bloody Val looked at him as if he knew more of Jon Snow’s intentions than they did.

“Is it not time to ask… him where are we going?” Toregg was welcome to it, if he wanted to go and ask Snow of their journey’s purpose. Tormund said nothing, his fears were his own. “Old Nusha looks near dead from walking.” More like Toregg himself was dying from the cold and the exhaustion- Old Nusha was as hard as mammoth’s teeth, the old witch. 

“She is the bloody reason my balls are freezing in the cold,” Tormund growled through his teeth. “We could have been warm right now, eating the food of the dead crows, feasting like kings. It is all that damned wood witch’s fault.” And without waiting for the boy to answer, Tormund walked away.

In truth, Tormund had little desire to be in the crows’ castle, haunted by their dying screams, their tortured ghosts singing songs of their bloody end. But he was even less willing to go anywhere near Jon Snow. Some of his own people whispered it was the Old God’s doing. Tormund did not know if this was any truer than the chants of the Red Witch but he had seen him in battle and he fought like nothing human that Tormund had ever seen. 

The Free folk had been ready to follow the Lord Crow even before they believed him a divine herald of the gods. Tormund himself had been eager to follow the boy into battle. Small wonder, his people had bowed to him once he had stepped out from that broken tower stronger and deadlier than all his warriors put together- more than a mortal man but not a Cold God either. And so, when Jon Snow had silently walked away from the warmth and safety of the castle and into the bloody snow, every last man and woman, every whaling child and old crone of the Free folk had been quick to follow without a second thought.

Tormund had hesitated before following as well. He had been unwilling to stay behind with only the tortured ghosts of his former enemies to keep him company but he might have been tempted by the solid walls and all the food that the castle held had it not been the old wood witch. He cursed Old Nusha and her witchcraft once more. The crone was from his own clan, the one he had led for years before Mance had defeated him and made him join his army. Her powers had proven useful many times in the days when Tormund had been chief of his people and that was why he had kept her instead of banishing her for her unnatural practices like his battle commanders had urged him. Her magic was strong and her counsel was sage. _A wise chief knows when to lead and when to listen_ , his father had oft told him before a Thenn buried his axe between his eyes. So, when Old Nusha had told him that their only hope to survive the Long Winter was to follow Jon Snow to their salvation, Tormund had listened.

Tormund headed towards the front of the long column of people. Jon Snow was at the head of the procession, no one else knew the way after all. He had not spoken with him since the Red Witch had brought him back more than a fortnight ago. It was time he faced the boy- _No, I ought to not think or speak of him as if he were a boy if I don’t want to end up with my guts hanging about me in the snow_. It was time to ask Snow of his plan and to find out how long until Winterfell, if that was indeed where they were headed. Mance would have known where they were had he been here with them. He had grown up with the Watch and after he had chosen freedom, he had climbed the Wall dozens of times. He knew the lands of the kneelers almost as well as he knew the North. 

Tormund, on the other hand, had never stepped a foot in these lands. He had taken fishing boats to the Western Island which was south of the Wall when he was younger but he had never gone on raiding the kneelers’ stone castles like many of his people.

Jon Snow was far ahead, his figure a black dot against the white snow. He walked alone as if he was undisturbed by neither wind nor storm as if things such as companionship and weather did not concern him anymore. That scared Tormund most of all.

“Aye. Crow,” he shouted as loud as his lungs could allow which was louder than most folk. “Wait up.” 

Jon Snow stopped but did not move towards Tormund or to even turn around. He simply stood where he was, rooted like a weirwood tree. Tormund quickened his pace, afraid Snow could decide to walk away before he could reach him. The man did not look at him when Tormund neared, he just kept staring ahead into the white nothingness.

“It’s as bloody freezing in your home as it is in ours, crow,” Tormund forced out a laughter, determined not to show any fear to the man. _Never show any fear_ , his father had told him when he had been a green boy with milk ‘round his mouth, _fear won’t kill a mammoth for you and it won’t warm you up in the cold. Fear won’t sway the Old Gods, nor the Cold Gods. And nothing that won’t help you survive is not worth showing. If you are to die, die a man, free and loud and brave_.

Jon Snow said nothing. The man did not even bother to turn and look at him. That irritated Tormund some, but not enough to deafen his fear from the crow. He wished to turn and walk into the opposite direction, to melt into the column of free folk and then to walk some more until he reached the castle of the crows. No dead crows could be half as disturbing as the living one before him. _And it is not me their ghosts would be angry at, they would leave me be_. But he knew that if he walked, his people would not follow. Not this time. They would keep walking. They would follow their new king, their new god, into the bloody snows on his unknown path and they would not stop until he stopped, if he ever did stop at all. It was a wonder all of them were still alive, and it only served to fortify their faith into this new deity of theirs, but Tormund was no naïve believer and he knew that whatever kept them alive would not do so forever. They would not stop to sleep or to eat until all strength left them and even Jon Snow’s divinely powers would not keep them alive. Then they would start dropping dead into the snow. The last remnants of the free folk, dead because they kneeled before a crow. Tormund would not have it. He was the one who led them into this, there was no one else to lead them out but him. Most of his warriors had died in the battle for the Wall, the ones who were still alive were as stupid as Torreg. Val was smart enough but she followed, she did not lead. And she seemed more afraid of Snow than Tormund himself. The rest were old crones and green boys, not one of them fit to lead. There was no one else left to protect his people. He cursed under his breath.

“The people are tired, we’ve been marching for hours,” Tormund tried again, abandoning all attempts at pretense. This time, Jon Snow turned to look at him. Tormund almost wished he hadn’t. His face was devoid of all emotion and his eyes were empty. _Like a corpse_. A sudden gust of wind made Tormund shiver. _Grey, not blue_ , he thought.

“The people.” His voice was raspy, quiet and as empty as his eyes. It almost sounded as a question but not quite.

“The elderly can’t be marching for a full day with no food and no rest.” _Even with the bloody magic that seems to shoot out of your divine arse_ , he added to himself. If Jon Snow would kill him, there was not much he could do. But he would have his say first. “I know you are a god now and you can march naked in the bloody snows all day without your cock so much as feeling a tickle but my people are not dead men walking, Lord Crow and they need to rest,” he waved his hand towards the horde behind them. _If you are to die, die a man, free and loud and brave_.

Jon Snow’s gaze followed his hand. His brows lifted slightly and a crease appeared between them. Confusion painted his face without ever reaching his eyes somehow. The people had stopped now, probably thinking they were setting up camp for the night. Had he forgotten about them? Had he seen them following him at all?

“You followed me from Castle Black.” Once again, he did not ask it as a question. It did not even sound as if he was speaking to Tormund. He seemed to have forgotten Tormund was even there.

“Aye, we did. All of us. There are children and crones in that column. Even the men have grown tired. You always stop for sleep when the sky goes dark.” In truth, it was dark most of the time now that winter was here and one could barely tell if the sun had risen at all behind the grey veil of thick clouds. But the nights were even darker than the days. There were no stars and no moon to cast even the dimmest of lights upon his people. The darkness enveloped them like a blanket and Tormund could not see his hand let alone walk without breaking his thrice damned neck. _It might be better if I did_ , he thought with bitterness.

Every night Jon Snow stopped his endless march as soon as the little light they had gave way to near complete darkness. Each time he sat next to one tree or another and slept until the light returned. How he managed to sleep in this bloody cold without a warm body huddled next to his, Tormund did not know. Val had joked once that she would go and warm Snow up but it was only that- jokes meant to break the tenuous silence.

“I do not sleep,” Jon Snow said. His face had fallen back to its emotionless mask and his eyes looked unseeing as if his mind was somewhere else.

Tormund stared at him, wondering for the hundredth time if he should have killed the bloody Red Witch before she could perform her unnatural magic.

“Then what do you do each night,” Tormund asked before he could stop himself. 

“I do not sleep,” he repeated. “I talk to her. She sleeps at night and we can talk.” The hairs on the back of Tormund’s neck rose. It’s just the cold, he thought. Tormund knew that Jon Snow had bedded a free woman, Ygritte, while he was in Mance’s camp. He also knew that she had died in the attack on Castle Black. It seemed now that Jon Snow had loved her. _But even a messenger of the gods could not gather her ashes from the wind and wove them back together into a living woman_. Jon Snow was either mad or he could speak to the dead. Tormund did not know which seemed more chilling.

“I was in love once too, Snow,” Tormund’s mouth had gone dry. “She was a bear. And she was like no woman I had ever had.” He had not even stolen her, not really. No man could steal such a woman. Despite the freezing cold, a warmth spread through Tormund’s body at the thought of her. She was a blazing fire that could pierce through time and distance and make his blood boil at the thought of her. “She could fight me better than my own warriors and she fought me even in bed.” _She stole my soul, that damned woman_. “But I knew it wouldn’t last and I accepted that. Enjoy the warmth while the fire burns, my old man used to say, but know that it will burn out and don’t cry over the ash when it does. You must have known it would not last, lad.” He had, after all, bedded her while planning how to betray her people and her king.

“Where is your bear now, Tormund?” It was the first question Jon Snow had asked since they began speaking. His expression was still blank and he seemed deaf to Tormund’s advice but it was still something.

“I don’t know, lad. I only had her twice and last time was some ten years past. I would have gone to her again most like if not for Mance forcing my people to join his army.” He had not met her kind amongst the free folk. Not one of his own was a match for that bloody woman.

“I will try and… walk slower. I will stop for rest more often so your people can eat and sleep,” Jon Snow said as if they never changed the topic.

He turned his back to Tormund as if he was some sort of kneeler servant that could be dismissed. But Tormund was no kneeler and he was not finished yet.

“Where are we going, Jon Snow? Are we going to the Stark castle?”

“No, we are not going to Winterfell. We are going to my half-sister.” Jon Snow was looking at him again and it was the first time Tormund saw something akin to emotion on his face.

“I thought she was at Winterfell. I thought the Boltons had her.” They were preparing to march and rescue her before Jon Snow’s own black brothers had stabbed him in the night.

“Arya is not in Winterfell. She is much too far away to tell for certain.” Tormund did not know what in the name of the gods Jon Snow meant by that. “We are going to my other half-sister.” It was the first Tormund was hearing that Jon Snow had more than one sister. “Now go and tell your people we are stopping for the night.”

“Your people now, Jon Snow,” Tormund said before turning to go.

He felt himself relax the further away he got from Jon Snow. His limbs were half-frozen and hurting and his eyes were growing heavy. Maybe he would get to sleep for longer tonight. Maybe he would dream of something else but blood and screams. Maybe his heart would not feel so heavy in his chest and fear would not grip his mind while he lay huddled between his men, begging the gods to make him forget what he was following, to grant him rest. And maybe this would be the night he finally felt the warmth of summer on his skin one last time as his heart finally gave way to the cold…

He nearly jumped when he felt something grab his right arm. His left hand flew to his dagger as he turned. Red eyes met his own golden ones and an unnerving smile appeared on the Red Witch’s face as she eyed his weapon that was touching her thin, white neck. He had not seen her approach. She walked alone by day and slept alone by night, away from his people who were as distrustful and anxious about her as ever. She made them uneasy, even more so after she had brought Jon Snow back. _Like a snake amongst hares._

“I mean you no harm, Tormund Giantsbane,” her voice was silky and sweet, the poison was hidden deep within, “and if I did, no dagger would stop me.” He needed no reminding of her powers- she was as imposing now that her Queen and her guards had fled her as she had been with her retinue of followers repeating her every word as if it came directly from the gods- yet she liked to remind him nonetheless. “I only wish to speak.”

“Speak then, but I don’t promise to speak back to you.” Listening to her was already too much for Tormund’s liking.

“I can see into your heart, Tormund Giantsbane, there is no need to pretend with me. I am not your enemy.” Her hand was still on his arm and he could feel her warmth through the layers of thick furs.

“I have friends aplenty,” he answered, “and I hold little love for witches that do not feel the cold.” 

“We all need friends in the Long Night, milord, and I do feel the cold. But the Lord of Light’s fire is stronger than the Other’s frosty fingers. Give yourself to him and he will keep your blood warm when the real cold comes.” The cold was real enough for him.

“I have no words for you, woman.” _Free and loud and brave._ “Speak your poison elsewhere.” He turned away to walk away.

“I have seen you in my fires. You have a role to play, Breaker of Ice.” He turned to look at her again, despite himself. “You will face the servants of the Great Other and will fight on the side of life, Tormund Giantsbane. You will lead hosts to protect mankind from the Eternal Darkness. Songs will be sung of you long after your death.”

“How do I die?” His voice was almost a whisper. He cursed himself. He did not want to know. No man should glimpse into his future, it was a bane and a blasphemy- only the gods could see both the past and the future. Besides, the Red Witch was most likely wrong, she had been wrong aplenty about Jon Snow’s sister. She smiled.

“You will die beside your King, Tormund, Speaker to Gods, protecting him from the evil that will plague this land very soon.” Tormund laughed at that. He knew she was lying to him now.

“Jon Snow is no king of mine.” With that, he left her and walked towards his people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here it is.
> 
> I apologise for the time it took to update this but RL caught up with me and I had very little time to write in the past month. I will do my best to update more often now that everything is back to normal.
> 
> Just to clarify, I try to adhere to book canon and in the books, I don't remember Tormund being particularly close or concerned with Ygritte, hence why we don't get a more emotional reaction at the thought of her.
> 
> If you are still reading, please let me know what you think. As always, any thoughts, positive or negative, are welcome.


	7. Sansa I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tear ran down her cheek. _I have held my tears for so long._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains attempted sexual assault and violence.
> 
> If these topics are triggering for you, please do not read.

Sansa’s eyes scanned the room warily as her shaking fingers gripped the meat knife. Nobody was looking at her. It was passed the hour of the ghosts and most men seemed to be deep in their cups. Even Petyr, who avoided drinking more than a glass of wine, had made an exception tonight. He seemed as disguised as the rest of the men but whether it was on wine or on his own success, Sansa could not tell. She quickly pulled her skirts up under the table and tucked the knife into her woolen stocking. She was hoping that whoever waited for her tonight was a friend rather than a foe but, if it was the latter, she would be prepared. She was no great warrior but a knife in the throat was a knife in the throat all the same. _ The world is built by killers _ , the Hound had told her. She could be one too if taking another man’s life was the price she had to pay for her own. Or so she hoped. 

“You look positively sorrowful, dear,” Myranda purred in her year, making Sansa nearly jump in her chair. “If one was to look at you, they would think you are attending a funeral rather than a feast.” With that, the older girl’s mouth curved down in a mockery of grief.

“I am simply tired, Randa,” Sansa sighed, praying that would satisfy her friend. She had been playing the hostess to all of the people that had arrived for the tourney, after all. Even the feast had been hers to prepare. An oddity that such an honor fell onto a bastard, as more than one Lord and Lady had whispered. Sansa was happy for it though because her tiredness would not have gone unnoticed by Petyr had there not been a good reason behind it.

The tourney had been more of a success than she or Petyr had dared to dream. Petyr had managed to charm most of the Lords of the Vale that had been careful to trust him before, or so he had told her earlier tonight as his hand was roaming hungrily around her neckline. Harry seemed entirely smitten with Alayne Stone and had gifted her a white rose on his last joust, announcing there was no maiden half as fair in all the Seven Kingdoms. Whether it was Lady Anya’s influence or her own charms, Sansa cared little and less. However, Petyr had been immensely pleased with her. Sweetrobin was finally happy that he had his eight protectors. Even Harry’s presence could not sour his mood. He had attended the feast tonight and had not thrown a single fit of rage until Maester Colemon had taken him to bed. 

“The more gullible of these old bucks might believe that,” Myranda whispered as she leaned closer to Sansa, “but someone with more attentive eyes will notice that the luckiest **bastard** in all of Westeros seems not too pleased that she is treated far beyond her station, _Alayne_.” Sansa inhaled sharply at that, drawing the eyes of a drunk Harry who sat two chairs away from her, this was the first time since that morning three days ago, that Myranda was making mention of her secret. Harry smiled at her and it took all her strength to smile back at him with something she hoped looked like infatuation. “I will not tell a soul, dear, but your face will if you carry on like this.” Myranda paused and grabbed Sansa’s hand in hers. Myranda’s hand was soft, warm and comforting. “I care about you, Alayne. I want you to be safe and happy.” 

“I know that,” Sansa said quietly. Myranda’s eyes looked at her and she seemed so sincere in this moment. She was a bit brash and loud but she was also loyal and caring and Sansa was going to miss her friendship. A sadness spread through her chest. “You are a true friend, Randa and I am happy that I met you,” she said before she could stop herself. It sounded too much like a farewell. She hoped Myranda would not take note of that. She already knew one secret too much. Myranda simply squeezed her hand and placed a soft kiss on her cheek. Sansa’s eyes felt dry. “I should retire now. As you suggested, my tiredness does not fit the joyous mood.” She stood.

“Be safe, Alayne.” Myranda’s voice held a tinge of sadness. 

Sansa quickly excused herself feigning exhaustion from the tourney events and hurried away from the Great Hall. The further away she got from the feast, the quieter the halls got. The castle looked empty and cold now that everyone was gathered in the Great Hall drinking and dancing. It looked much less safe than she had once believed. In the dark, its stone hallways seemed the same as the ones in the Red Keep. The walls were chilly, no hot springs ran through them to warm them in the winter. This was not home. Not for her, and not for any Stark. Soon, she thought. There was one last thing to do here before she left the Vale behind.

She knocked softly on the door to Sweetrobin’s chambers. As she had hoped, Maester Colemon greeted her on the other side.

“I need to speak with you,” she whispered, afraid Sweetrobin might wake and demand she sing him a song, he loved her voice. Maester Colemon just nodded and led her to his room, which adjoined Sweetrobin’s, a necessary precaution as the boy sometimes got one of his shaking fits during the night. 

“How can I be of service, my lady?” 

“Lord Baelish plans to be rid of Lord Arryn.” It was a gamble, really. Maester Colemon seemed loyal and sincerely concerned with Sweetrobin’s health and well-being but there was no way to know if he was Littlefinger’s creature until she said the words. He was the only one she could tell, the only one who could keep Sweetrobin safe once she left. If he did not react well to it then… She could feel the steel pressed against her skin in her stocking.

“You are certain?” His eyes were wide in shock and his voice was higher than normal. This was news to him, just as she had hoped. “How?”

“I do not know. Poison perhaps.” It was what he had used on the boy’s father after all. “Something slow. Something that would seem natural.” Petyr could not outright kill him. Maybe he would let him live once Sansa was gone and there was no way for him to control Harry the Heir, but she could not be sure. And Sweetrobin would still be in danger as soon as Littlefinger concocted a new scheme. “Get him a food taster. Try the food yourself if you must. But protect him.” She could see the question in his eyes begin to form.

“Why are you telling me this now, my lady? Why can you not help me protect him?” 

“I will be gone soon.” Her voice was even. “Lord Baelish means to send me away to Lady Waynwood to get acquainted with my future family.” The lie would not hold for very long but it was plausible enough whispered to the Maester in the dark of night. He might begin to question it come the morning but by then she would be long gone and it would matter little. One more lie, one more loyal man to be fooled by her. _ There is no honor in lies _ , her father’s voice echoed in her head. She chased it away as she always did. There would be time to repent for all she had done later, not now when she was so close.

“If what you are telling me is true, my lady…” Maester Colemon’s voice faltered. He could not find the words for such a monstrosity. Men like him could hardly imagine deeds so despicable and schemes so poisonous as the ones she had been part of. “My duty is to House Arryn, my lady. You have my word I will do all I can.” She could see the steel resolve behind his black eyes.

She nodded before she walked away, back through the small door adjoining the two rooms, back to the little Lord’s chambers. She looked at him and her determination almost broke at the sight. He looked so peaceful when he was asleep, so small and brittle. He seemed no older than Rickon. A motherless boy, alone in the world. Like her two baby brothers, waiting for Mother in Winterfell before the Turncloak took the castle. She could not help them but she had tried to help him. And now she would abandon him too, like so many others. Had her heart been whole, it would have broken at this very moment. _I could take him away with me. I could take him to Winterfell._ She knew it to be a foolish thought though. She had no clue who was waiting for her, she would not risk his life for her hopes of freedom. Besides, he would never survive the road in winter, sickly as he was. She stepped towards the bed and quickly kissed his soft cheek.

“Mother,” Sweetrobin murmured softly in his sleep. Her eyes stung with unspent tears. 

Sansa hurried away before he could wake. She almost ran through the vacant hallways and into her room. She needed to hurry, it was nearly the hour of the owl and the last note she received said she needed to be at the stables before the hour of the wolf. Whoever it was that had come for her, the Blackfish or her brother or some unknown savior would be waiting for her, they were to flee under the blackest hour of the night.

She changed her deep blue dress into a dark grey woolen one. It was warmer and more suitable for the road. She quickly slid her slippers off and donned her riding boots. She put on a dark warm cloak and she pulled the little travel bag she had prepared for her escape from under her bed. She had not been able to sneak out a lot of food without raising suspicion and she hoped that her savior had thought of that. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest. _Think of Winterfell. Think of Arya_ , she commanded. Her pulse calmed a little. A bird chirped outside her window, its song echoing in the dead of night. Maybe it was the same little sparrow that she had fed and then released back into freedom two days passed. 

_As I will be free soon. Free from my golden cage_. Free from Petyr’s kisses and unwanted hands and grabbing fingers. Free from being sold for power to another House and to another man that did not love her.

_I thought I was to be free when I was fleeing King’s Landing too_. The thought came unbidden. She knew there was no point in having yet another debate with herself. Whatever awaited her, it could hardly be worse than what she had now. She could barely look at Petyr ever since the first note she had received and it was a matter of time before he knew something was amiss. She could not stay. And she might not get another chance. She shook her head, trying to clear it. 

Sansa almost missed the quiet click behind her, lost deep in her thoughts.

“I thought you were retiring to bed, Alayne… Where do you think you are going,” Petyr said behind her, his words sounding a little slurred. Her hand, still clutching her travel bag, went numb and she could no longer feel her heart beating in her chest.

_Myranda. I trusted you._

She turned very slowly, a hot wave washing through her body. He was standing near the door, leaning on the wall, watching her and for the very first time, his emotions were not carefully masked behind indifference. She could see the rage in his eyes mixed with the lust. She could see the shock in the way his lips were slightly parted and his eyebrows were curved upwards. She could see his left hand shaking more visibly than ever. _I am done for_ , a voice, that was not her own, screamed in her head.

“Are you preparing to leave me, Alayne? After all I have done for you? After you made me push Lysa out of the Moon door for you?” His voice was low and gravelly. He made a step towards her, stumbling. His hand reached out instinctively and grabbed onto her vanity for support, bringing him closer to her than she liked. Her left foot instinctively stepped back and she felt it hit the bed. There was nowhere to run. A cold wave crashed with the heat in her veins and she could feel her head growing heavy. _What you did was never for me_ , she wanted to shout but her voice seemed lost somewhere deep inside where she could not reach it. _So close_ , she thought. _So close to Winterfell, only to be caged once again._

“What? No sweet words,” he continued mercilessly as her mind raced to find something to say, some reason that would miraculously explain why she was dressed and ready for travel in the middle of the night. He let go of her vanity, balancing himself. “You would betray and abandon your father.” Her heart began beating once more at his words, racing like the wolf on the sigil of House Stark. _My House. I am a Stark too._ Each beat was thumping and echoing in her head. 

“You killed my father,” Sansa hissed without thinking. She knew she ought to lie, to think of some explanation to give, to scheme, to throw him off her true purpose, but she could not. All she could think of was that the man before her, the lying schemer that had kissed her and dressed her and turned her into a shadow of himself, had killed her father and ruined her family. All she could feel was the blood rising in her cheeks, unfamiliar rage dancing through her veins. She did not know what he would do with her but whatever it was she would meet her fate as a wolf, not a sheep. _Brave. Like Mother. Like Robb. Like Arya._ “Did you betray him for me? Did you plot his death for me? Did you convince Joffrey to cut his head off **for me**?”

She watched as his face changed from hurt to surprise, from surprise to horror and, finally, to something terribly akin to fear.

“That’s a lie, Alayne,” he slurred, voice unsteady and a little higher than normal.

“Don’t call me that,” Sansa cut him off, sounding surprisingly calm to her own ears. Inside her raged a storm of entangled emotions: fear intertwined with fury, sadness interwoven with disgust, but on the outside she was a statue, her face wearing the mask he thought her to. She could see his drunken eyes searching her face for something and finding nothing.

He stepped quickly towards her then, crossing the small distance that separated them, too quickly for someone as disguised as him. He grabbed her hand in his shaking left one, his movements almost desperate.

“Sansa,” his breath hit her in the face. **Not mint.** Wine. Memories rushed through her mind. _ You promised me a song, little bird _, he had said, his breath stinking of wine too. “My Sansa.” She felt bile rising in her throat. The thumping in her head was growing stronger. She tried to free her hand from him but he only clutched her harder. Her fear flared once more, no memory of the rage she had felt moments ago. “Your mother was the only thing I ever wanted,” he continued encouraged by her silence. “She loved me too. But I was not highborn enough and her father would not have it. But I never forgot her. I never forgot the stolen touches and the sweet kisses,” his voice was raspy and lustful now.

His right hand hovered over her face hesitantly. Her breath caught in her throat. She felt as if she was made of stone, her spirit caught in the prison of her unmoving body. It took all of her strength to will herself to move. She dropped her travel bag and tried to push him away but she was just a girl and he was a man grown, she did not have the strength to free herself. _I was not strong enough in Kings Landing and I am not strong enough now._ Her weak attempt only seemed to encourage him. _A silly little girl. I never learn._

“You killed him,” she said quietly, her voice sounding pathetic in her ears. Her head felt dizzy and her dress seemed too tight, making it hard to breathe. 

“Stop it,” he hissed angrily. “Stop speaking of him. What did Ned Stark ever do to deserve you?” Sansa could not understand his meaning and did not have time to say anything before his right hand grabbed her left one and he shoved her roughly towards the bed. She tried to struggle but it was a pathetic attempt, weak and useless. _Like me._ She remembered other hands, reaching and grabbing towards her. She remembered the reek of the streets, the shouts, and the screams. She remembered the words of hate spat at her as bony fingers tore down her dress before The Hound had come to save her.

“I never wanted anything else,” his lips whispered as his mouth pressed to hers. “I love you, Cat.” Sansa wanted to cry, she wanted to scream but no tears came and her mouth was frozen under Petyr’s lips. His words were not of hate yet it felt no different than if they were.

His hands ravaged her body, touching her with desperation. Sansa felt like she was drowning. _ I will make you a match with a high lord who is worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong,  _ she could hear her father’s voice in her mind. The hands that touched her were not gentle. 

He was on top of her now, pinning her to the bed. Sansa tried to move, struggling in her new prison. His hands only gripped her harder, pinching at her arms. A cry of pain died in her throat as his lips crashed into hers once more. The air around her was too thick, she could not breathe. Her hands tensed and she tried to free herself again. _ Save yourself some pain, girl. Give him what he wants _, the Hound’s voice echoed. Where was he now? The only knight she had known in her life, a drunken killer with his hateful words and burned face but he had helped her, time and again he had helped her. _There is no one to save me now._

Sansa stopped struggling. There was little point in it. Petyr was stronger than her even in his drunken state, driven by lust and illusions. Every time she had tried to fight in the Capital, her attempt had been met with pain. It was no different now. Her song has always been a sorrowful one. She closed her eyes, trying to stop herself from feeling Petyr’s touch.

_ If your Lord Husband mistreats you some day, I will cut his head off with Ice, little sister, _ Robb had told her when she was five and he was eight after Old Nan had told them a scary tale about a king who killed his queen. Robb was dead now. Valiant Robb, who always defended her and promised her to keep her safe. He was to be a Lord, but he died a King. The bravest of them all, dead before his time. There is no one to save me now.

She heard the rip of fabric and she felt a pull as he tore the cloak away from her. He had let go of her hands now, realising she was not resisting. Hot, sweaty fingers gripped her flesh painfully. _It’s going to bruise_ , she thought detachedly. 

“Cat,” he whispered into her hair.

_ You need to learn to fight, Sansa, _” Arya told her once. “ _ You can’t always be the maiden in the tower waiting to be saved. _ Sansa had laughed at how silly she was. _ Why would I need to fight when I can be saved by a knight or a prince_, she had sneered. _Silly little girl. There is no one to save me now._

He raised her skirts savagely and lifted her legs, bending them at the knees. She felt him pressed against her, small and hard. 

_Life is not a song. There is no one to save me now. No one ever came to save me._

Her stiff fingers were trembling as she moved her hand slowly towards her leg. _Gods forgive me._

His tongue was wet and slimy on her neck.

The steel was cold.

“Cat,” he murmured drunkenly as she pulled the knife out of her stocking and drove it blindly towards his stomach with all of the force she could muster.

Sansa opened her eyes in time to see his eyes squint in agony above her. She could feel something wet trickling down her fingers. Petyr’s grip on her tight loosened as she pulled the knife out. A pained sound came from his lips as he opened his mouth in an attempt to speak.

She stabbed again. 

His lips were red. Red like a weirwood tree. Red like her Mother’s hair. Red like the Queen’s dress. Red like vengeance. Red like the blood of her father, running down the steps of the Great Sept. _Gods forgive me._

“I only wanted you to love me, Cat,” he coughed. “I never wanted you to die,” blood ran down his lip and tears ran down his cheeks, as Sansa pulled out her knife once more. 

She pushed it back into him one last time as his body slid down on top of her. She tried to push him away but he was heavy and she had no strength left. Her hands were sleek with blood and more was dripping on her dress as she struggled to free herself. 

She twisted and pushed until finally, she managed to slide underneath Petyr and off the bed. She looked at his lifeless body, too stunned to think of what to do next. _The world is built by killers_ , his words resonated in her mind.

_No! What have I done?_ Sansa felt her head spin like it did when Robb used to pick her up and swirl her around her room. Only there was no laughter, only silence and the thumping in her head.

_ Killing is the sweetest thing there is_, the Hound had told her. She felt no sweetness now. Only terror. Why had he lied to her? Of all the true things he had told her, why had he lied about this? She had never felt anything less sweet.

“ _No_ ,” she heard herself scream. The door clicked behind her again and she felt as if she was reliving it all in a loop. Would she see him alive if she turned around?

But it was not Petyr, miraculously healed, when she turned to face the door. It was Ser Lothor Brune. Sansa watched him as his eyes scanned her room and saw his master’s dead body sprayed across her bed and her standing next to it with bloodied hands still clutching the knife. It only took him a moment but she felt as if eternity had passed.

Sansa could see on his face an expression she was too familiar with. It was the same expression Ser Arys Oakheart had had when Joffrey made him hit her, the shame of what he was about to do mixed with the resolve to do his duty nonetheless. It was the same expression her Lord Father had had when he was about to behead a deserter. She knew what Lotor Brune was about to do. His duty.

_Fly, Sansa_ , she heard Bran’s voice. A tear ran down her cheek. _I have held my tears for so long._

Lotor Brune stepped towards her. The spinning in her head was unbearable now. Around her, time seemed to slow down. She saw his mailed fist swinging to hit her, slowly. _Gods forgive me._

_Fly, Sansa_ , Bran commanded.

She never felt him hit her. She heard a loud thud.

_Fly_ , Bran screamed.

Her body started falling. 

She never felt it touch the ground.

Her rooms disappeared as she heard a wolf howl in the night.

And she flew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy it guys. 
> 
> I apologise if this chapter is offensive to anyone. It was extremely hard to write and I am not quite happy with how it came out.
> 
> As always, any thoughts are welcome.
> 
> Also, I now have a tumblr account. I am luxuriasdance on there as well. Come and say hi if you like. I will warn you though, I have had the account for a very short period and I am still not sure what exactly to do so I pretty much just follow jonsa blogs. :)


	8. Jaime I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**A fool**_ she would always say. And she had been right. A fool he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, hello again to anyone who is still reading.
> 
> I realise it has been a long time and I bet you thought I have given up but no. Here we are again. I give you this monstrosity of a chapter that is twice as long as any of the previous ones.
> 
> I am not positive that I have managed to capture Jaime's inner struggles but alas, this is all I got.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it and thanks again for reading.

Iane, the stable boy who sat next to Jaime, began singing _Milady’s Supper_ and Jaime looked away from the high table. The men around him cheered at Iane’s choice. The bard who was playing for the Lords was too far away from the table where Jaime sat along with the servants and lowborn squires. His songs could not be heard above the shouts and ruckus in the Great Hall and they were most likely too refined for the ears of commoners. But Iane’s croaky voice was pleasant enough to the ear and the songs he sang were bawdy and rude and more suited for Jaime’s present company than for the ears of ladies and lords.

The food that was served to the stablemen was not as good as one might have wished but it was still better than the food Jaime had been eating in the last fortnight so he was not about to complain. 

It was fortunate enough that any servants were admitted to the feast or it would have been hard for him to find a way into the main castle once the doors were locked for the night. Cersei would have never allowed commoners feasting in the Great Hall of Maegor’s Citadel. _Give them a taste of our life and before you know it, they will try and take it, like hungry dogs a bone_ , she would say. A separate feast was always thrown outside the castle for the lowborn and the servants. The only time Jaime had seen servants and lords eat in the same hall had been during his visit to Winterfell. _Maybe it is not good fortune. Maybe the girl is not half as stupid as Cersei had thought her_ , he thought. Perhaps she was trying to aid in her own rescue.

Despite the tasteless food and the unsavoury company Jaime was glad he was far enough from anyone that might know him. The chances of that were low enough. Most of the Vale Lords had not visited Kings Landing since before Jon Arryn’s death. And even Littlefinger and the Stark girl had not seen Jaime since the war began. By the Seven, the girl had even chanced upon him two days passed without recognizing who he was. He had been careless and he had not expected the daughter of the Lord Protector to be spending her time near the horses. But even when she had looked straight into his face she had been unable to recognise him.

With his hair dyed dark and his bearded face he was as far away from the man Sansa Stark would remember as one could be. He smelled of horses and his clothes were near as tattered as the ones he had worn on his journey from the cage in Riverrun to Harrenhall. His cheeks were hollowed and he did not have his golden hand to cover his stump. It would not suit a lowborn servant to wear something that could buy a village. There was nothing on him that could set him apart as a Lannister. _Cersei would have despised me if she saw me now._ Still, it was much preferable to being beheaded by the Lords of the Vale. 

Most of the Lords in the Hall had strayed as far away from him as possible back in Kings Landing. **As high as honour** were the words of their liege somehow the Lords of the Vale believed themselves to be as valiant as Aemon the Dragonknight, as pious as Baelor the Blessed and as honorable as late Ned Stark, if not more so. _Sanctimonious to the bone._ They had considered it beneath them to be in the presence of the likes of Jaime Lannister, the retched Kingslayer. He knew they had cursed and spat as soon as they saw his back. _Never in my face._

Self-righteous fools, the lot of them. By the way, they were drinking and feasting tonight, one would think they had won a great battle when not a single knight in this hall had even stepped his foot out of the Vale while the war was raging on. _What did the Northerners call them? Summer knights._ Unbloodied and young, their swords untested and clean and always sheathed. Some of them were older than Jaime had been when he had driven his sword through Aerys’ back.

He looked over at the girl once more. She was sat at the high table despite her current status as a bastard. She was smiling, like she had been throughout the whole feast. Her smile seemed radiant. Had he not known to look for her, he would have never recognised the blushing, redheaded Stark girl in the dark-haired maid who was betrothed to the heir of the Vale. _She seems to have forgotten my brother quick enough_ , Jaime thought amused. She had her mother’s eyes and her high cheekbones, he supposed. But her nose was much thinner and her lips much fuller than those of a young Catelyn Tully. At least as far as he could remember her. He had never given too much thought to any woman who was not Cersei. _While she was fucking her household in exchange for loyalty, as it seems_ , he thought bitterly. _I fancied us to be Aemon and Naerys while Robert was Aegon the Unworthy. It seems that I had just been Florian the Fool._

“A beauty, ain’t she,” a man whose name Jaime did not know rasped next to him, the lust in his voice obvious. “Pity her cunt’s been sold to the Heir.” The man spat to the side angrily as if the only thing that stood between him and the Lord Protector’s daughter was Harry the Heir. Jaime smirked but said nothing. “Gimme one night and I’ll show ‘er what a real man feels like.” Most of the men around the table cheered at that, looking equally prepared to show noblewomen the taste of pleasure.

“I’ve ‘eard the Heir has seen enough women to know which ‘ole to put it in to make babes,” one of the squires laughed nervously- a pale boy with a speck of blond fuzz above his upper lip. He reminded Jaime of Lancel. _He looks enough a Lannister for Cersei to spread her legs. Poor boy, sitting here and admiring a bastard girl when the Queen of all the Seven Kingdoms could be riding him if he could offer her his service._

“And she ain’t as innocent as she looks, that one. She’s seen more of the Lord Protector than a maid ought to,” added a third man. Jaime looked up at him sharply. 

Everyone in court had known of Littlefinger’s infatuation with Catelyn Tully. After all, he had been foolish enough to duel Brandon Stark, who had been almost twice his size, for her hand. As if ambitious Hoster Tully would have given his prized jewel, his eldest daughter, to a man as lowborn as Petyr Baelysh, no matter how many duels or tourneys he won. The girl resembled her mother enough, Jaime supposed. If anything, she seemed even fairer than Catelyn Tully had been. But Littlefinger had managed to sneak the Crown’s most valuable hostage out of the Capital without even a grain of suspicion from Cersei or their father. If he was cunning enough to do that, he was surely not so foolish as to defile Sansa Stark. Her maidenhead was the key to the North, after all. _No_ , Jaime thought, _Littlefinger is not so foolish. But he is still a man. And there are other ways to fool a man as stupid as Harry the Heir looks that his bride is untouched. Cersei managed to fool Robert._

Jaime could not imagine that Sansa Stark who had not let even Tyrion share her bed as her Lord Husband, to willingly go to Littlefinger. Which meant she had one more reason to want to flee the Vale. He did not believe she would be laying a trap for him, not after the truths he had told her in that letter. The idea had been Brienne’s. Jaime would have simply brought his army to the Bloody Gate and demand the girl in the name of the King. He had never been one to plan and scheme. And neither had been Brienne. Jaime knew not what had befallen her on her quest to find the Stark girls but she seemed changed. And not just her ugly face that was now even uglier. Her innocence was gone as well. 

The cruelness of reality had twisted both Brienne and Sansa Stark, stealing their dreams and songs of chivalry away only to replace them with pain and cruelty. For some reason this filled him with sadness.

Sansa Stark was speaking to Myranda Royce. Her face was calm and earnest as if she was not about to flee her captors with an unknown man in the midst of darkness. Jaime had never been able to control his temper in such a way, much to the disappointment of his father. Cersei had always been better at it. She had even fooled him. _Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and probably Moonboy for all I know…_

Sansa Stark stood and quietly walked out of the hall through a door hidden behind the high table as Iane began singing The Bear and the Maiden Fair. Jaime remained seated. He did not wish to raise suspicion by following the Lord Protector’s daughter out of the hall.

He had prepared as well as he could, given the circumstances. He had bribed enough guards at the Bloody Gate to ensure they had a safe and easy passage. He had chosen the horse they were to steal- a well-bred palfrey that belonged to one of the Redforts. It was not the fastest mount in the stables, not next to Lyn Corbray’s destrier or Harry Harding’s courser, but it was the most durable and inconspicuous one. The palfrey would carry them further than any Dornish steed. _Maybe I should name this one Redemption._

The only risk he had left to the gods was the girl herself. But for that, there was not much preparing he could do. He did not know how Sansa Stark would react to a Lannister, even one that was trying to help her. Cersei had not told him much besides that the girl was stupid and, in all fairness, he had not cared enough to go around interrogating servants about the treatment she had received. Jaime could not imagine she held any warm memories of her time as Joffrey’s betrothed. He doubted that she wished to lay her eyes on another member of the House responsible for the destruction of her own.

_Still, Tyrion must have treated her well_ , he hoped. He had not forced her into his bed and Jaime could not imagine his brother mistreating his Lady Wife. _I could not imagine him killing our father either. Nor one of Cersei’s children. Maybe I have fooled myself of him as well._

The girl had little reason to hate him personally. He had never harmed her, he had not even been in the Capital once the war had started. _I did attack her father on the streets of Kings Landing_. But compared to the horrors her family had endured this was hardly even a transgression. And the girl might not even know about it. Lord Tywin would have never let Cersei be privy to such an affair. And even if the girl knew, her options were limited. To go with the man who attacked her father openly or to stay with the man who arranged for his death in secret.

_I crippled her little brother, I fought Robb Stark and I fathered the monster who drowned the realm in blood_. But Sansa Stark knew none of that. And he was not about to tell her. His task was to keep her safe, not to share stories with her.

He wished for a hundredth time it had been someone else and not him in this hall, preparing to whisk Sansa Stark away from the Vale. It would have been much easier for Brienne to convince the girl she is a friend rather than a foe. Yet… the **Lady** had been clear. Jaime was to go to the Vale, Brienne was to go East. A wench as tall and ugly as the Lady Knight would be easier to recognise in the Vale than a crippled ragged man. 

Jaime waived these thoughts away. He had avoided thinking of the **thing** that had tasked him with his quest. The horror of her screech and the hatred in her eyes would be enough to keep the bravest man awake at night. Yet it was not the hatred and the horror that had scared him the most…

He was not about to tell Sansa Stark what had happened to her Lady Mother either. _A whole lot of secrets to keep from the girl, and I have not even spoken to her yet._

He looked towards the far end of the hall once more, trying to chase the darkness from his mind. Myranda Royce was dancing with a tall, lanky boy. _Lionous Templeton or something equally as stupid._

It was almost time for him to go. A slight commotion at the high table caught his attention. A servant had approached Littlefinger and was whispering in his ear. Littlefinger’s face changed. It was just for a moment that his mask cracked. He regained his composure quickly enough to be sure no one had noticed. But Jaime was watching and he saw the brief moment of rage before Littlefinger’s smile returned.

The Lord Protector stood, the smile never leaving his face, and walked out of the hall.

Jaime stood and walked out through the nearest door. He did not need to follow Littlefinger, he knew where the man was going.

The halls were cold and near empty. He quickened his pace. If Sansa Stark had been discovered, there was little point of his disguise. He was not leaving the Vale without her. He had vowed to bring her to safety. He would not break another vow. **Not this one.** He would not commit yet another sin against the House of Stark. Too many were already weighing his soul down towards the Seven Hells as it was.

If he was to die while trying to bring Sansa Stark to safety, mayhaps the Seven would judge him justly. _The one vow I would not break against all the sins I have already committed._ He knew which way the Father’s scale would lean. And this scared him more than Lady Stoneheart ever could.

“Hold,” came a stern voice behind him. Jaime stopped, leaning heavily against the wall. He turned around with deliberate sluggishness to face a guard bearing the white and purple colours of Nestor Royce. “Are you lost? This is not the way to the stables. Or are you the Lady Myranda’s maiden perhaps?” The man laughed at his own jest. His laughter thundered through the empty hall but his hand was on the hilt of his sword. _I could have cut him without straining a muscle once_. But Jaime neither had his hand nor a sword, and his dagger would hardly be a match for the guard’s longsword even if the man was no better with the weapon than Tyrion.

“’m sorry, ser,” Jaime slurred. He had never taken a liking to drinking but he had seen both of his siblings well into their cups more times than he could count. He waved his stump in what he hoped was a harmless gesture. “I’s tryin’ to fin’ somewhere to piss, ser.” The man looked no more a knight than Pia looked a Lady but men liked to feel more important than they were in truth. The guard’s chest puffed up and a self-important smile appeared on his face. 

“I can have you whipped for trying to piss so close to the Lady Alayne’s chamber. I can go and tell Lord Baelish right now, maybe he would reward me for protecting his sweet daughter from drunken peasants like you.” He scratched his beard as if truly considering such possibility. Jaime’s stump flew up in an appeasing manner while his left hand reached behind as if to scratch his back. He smiled sheepishly, his eyes full of remorse. “But it is your lucky night. I am feeling generous.” The guard’s hand finally released the hilt of his sword and patted Jaime on the shoulder. Jaime’s left hand shot up and he drove his dagger deeply into the guard’s throat. The man’s eyes went wide in shock. Speed is half the skill Ser Broom had always said.

Jaime held the body up against the wall, his eyes scanning the empty hall quickly. He lowered the man as quietly as he could. He grabbed the dead guard’s sword and hurried down the dark hall, staying in the shadows as much as possible.

He paused before the last turn to the girl’s chambers, feeling uneasy. Never in his life had he been so cautious. He had been the son of Tywin Lannister, the most skilled knight in Westeros. Caution had not been something he needed to apply. Even when he would meet with Cersei and take her, he had not been the one to hide. _If Robert comes and catches us_ she would hiss while he kissed the poison off her mouth in some alcove in the Red Keep. _Let him_ , Jaime would answer, _I killed a King once. I would do it again. You will be free then._ _**A fool**_ she would always say. And she had been right. A fool he was.

Jaime slowly looked around the corner and thanked the Seven he had been cautious enough to not run down the hall to Sansa Stark’s room.

In front of her chamber stood another guard. There was no doubt this one was a knight. 

Jaime had been training to fight with his left hand. He was getting better even. He only lost the battle half the times now. But he was not proud enough to fool himself that he would ever be as good as the knights he had mocked for their lack of skill in his youth. Let alone a knight wearing full armour up to the gorget while Jaime was garbed in stableman’s rags.

He could surprise him and stab him in the back. _It is what I am best known for after all._ But that possibility was small. Most likely the man would sheath his sword in Jaime’s body before Jaime could even swing his own with his damned left hand.

The knight’s eyes were fixed on the door in front of him, his hand on his sword as if he would even need that against the girl inside. No sound came from her chambers and dread settled over Jaime’s chest.

He clutched the sword of the dead guard. If he was to die, it was better to die here than staring into the Lady’s dead eyes, telling her he had broken yet another oath. Better to die with a sword in his hand, the way he was meant to, than with a noose around his neck. His blood began to sing. _A fool._ Would Cersei feel his death? Would her heart stop at the same time his did? Would she mourn him if she lived? _No, she would curse my name and spit on my bones screaming I had abandoned her and died to serve her enemies._ He smiled and stepped towards the girl’s chambers. _Time to die._

The man moved sharply but not towards Jaime. He stepped towards the door without even glancing at the figure sneaking up behind him. He walked into the chamber. Jaime followed, adrenaline pulsing through his veins. _A fool._ The knight would turn any moment now. But he never turned, his attention fixated on something in front of him.

Jaime crept towards the door and looked inside. The light was almost blinding after the darkness of the dead halls. The air was thick with sweetness and the smell of death. He had only a moment to take in Littlefinger’s bloodied body and the small shaking figure of Sansa Stark trembling like a leaf in the middle of the room, her large blue eyes filled with tears.

The knight stepped towards the girl and raised a mailed fist to strike her. A wolf howled sorrowfully into the night. Jaime moved behind his back as quickly as he had that day so many years ago. A loud dull thud echoed in the chamber as the hilt of Jaime’s sword collided with the knight’s head before the man even reached Sansa Stark. Two bodies fell to the ground. 

Jaime’s slammed his sword into the man’s head once more and Jaime heard the skull crack. He stepped over the fallen body towards Sansa Stark’s small form. She lay unmoving on the ground, specks of blood scattered on her pale skin. Her eyes were wide open but stared unseeingly at the ceiling. Jaime touched her lightly. He could feel her shallow breaths and he could not see any sign that she had been harmed, nothing that would explain her state. He shook her lightly, hoping this would wake her from any nightmare she was in but nothing seemed to change.

Jaime felt dread clutch his chest. _I promised the Lady to bring her daughter to safety. Would I be stealing away another corpse instead?_ But he had little time to dwell on it. He needed to act quickly or they would be discovered and they would both be corpses. He dropped the sword and picked up Sansa Stark’s motionless body. _Another Stark maiden being stolen away after a tourney._ Although, if rumours had been true, this Stark maiden was much less willing than the one before her. Jaime thought he heard a quiet whimper behind him as he hurried away from her chambers. 

He thanked the Seven for the second time that night when he reached the stables without encountering a living soul. _I never knew I had it in me to be so pious. Perhaps I should don a Septon’s robes after this._ He lay Sansa Stark carefully on a pile of straw as he readied the palfrey. It was rather difficult to saddle a horse with only one hand, not to mention Jaime had rarely had reason to saddle his own horse while he still possessed his better hand, so he was moving slower than he would have liked. He cursed quietly as his useless fingers failed with the girth for the sixth time. The way it was going, dawn would break before he even managed to get them out of the Gates of the Moon. _I’d be damned if a cursed saddle is the reason we are caught._

 

It was well past the hour of the owl by the time he managed to saddle the horse and get Sansa Stark’s body on it. They could still make it to the High Road before first light.

The hairs on Jaime’s neck rose and he turned around just in time to see a short, fox-faced man step in the stables with a sword in his hand and a happy smile playing on his face. 

“I would be taking the Lady." The man looked pointedly at Sansa Stark's body that lay as still as ever on the palfrey. If he was surprised or concerned to see her as lifeless as a corpse, he did not show it.

"I am afraid I cannot allow it." Not any more than he could allow some nameless hedge knight to steal his last chance for honour. How he would stop the man though, he knew not. It seemed he was at a disadvantage once again but this time his opponent would neither have his back to Jaime nor be fooled as easily. Jaime cursed himself for leaving the damned sword behind even though he knew he would not have been able to carry both the weapon and the girl with one good hand.

"I would thank you for all the trouble you went through so I can have my reward but I feel my thanks would sound false given I plan to run you through with my sword."

"So you believe my sister would reward you for killing me even if it is to bring Sansa Stark to her? I fear you are mistaken." The corner of the small man's mouth turned downwards in a slight frown at that but his sword remained pointed towards Jaime.

"You must think me an utter fool to take you for the Kingslayer." The happy smile played at his lips once more and Jaime wondered what it was in this conversation that gave the hedge knight such pleasure. _Perhaps he is mad._

"Oh come now," Jaime started, his voice calm and containing the barest hint of mockery. "If you were... observant enough to know Sansa Stark without ever seeing the girl, surely you can recognise the Queen's infamous brother." The other man's eyes narrowed as if he was trying to see Jaime better in the dim light of the single sconce illuminating the stable. "See, I was sent by my sister to retrieve the girl without rousing the Vale," he continued. "She would be very distraught, I assure you, if she gets the girl but I never return. I daresay the man who delivers Sansa Stark would have to be questioned regarding my whereabouts." _Or Cersei might thank you for ridding her of me and take you to bed as a reward._

"That is one explanation," the hedge knight spoke slowly as if considering each word with utmost care. "There is another, much simpler one though. You do not wish to die and you want the reward for yourself." The man no longer smiled. "In my experience, the truth always lies with the most obvious explanation."

"You could kill me now and go see for yourself. I take you have planned on how to get away from the Vale with the girl." Jaime doubted the hedge knight had enough coin to bribe a single guard at the Bloody Gate, let alone enough of them to secure his passage. Otherwise, he would have stolen the girl away himself instead of waiting for another man to do it. 

Jaime was not a schemer and he had never been able to read people like Tyrion, but even he could see that his words struck true. The small man lowered his sword.

"Well then, I suppose if you truly are the Kingslayer, you wouldn't have any need of my reward." _He does not believe me._ “We shall be companions then. I had two other companions but they are probably drunk under a table somewhere. They will have to make due without me, it seems.” Whoever his companions have been, the man did not look too miserable to be leaving them behind. “And from what I can see, you could use an able swordsman." The joyous smile blossomed on the man's face once more. _Too easy. He plans to bury his sword in my gut as soon as we are a throw away from the Bloody Gate._ Unsettling as this was, there was little Jaime could do about it but hope that the man would wait until they reached Falcon's Turn* before running him through. 

"You will be richly rewarded for your aid in this." _As richly as Roger Reyne and Walderlan Tarbeck._ Jaime extended his good hand and the stranger shook it with an exaggerated eagerness. 

Jaime climbed onto his horse trying to ignore the queasy feeling in his stomach. He cradled Sansa Stark’s willowy body as securely as he could. The hedge knight climbed onto his own steed and it occurred to Jaime he did not even know the stranger’s name. It mattered not. They had precious little time left to reach the Bloody Gate before the break of dawn. 

Jaime was almost surprised when he finally spotted the twin watchtowers of the Bloody Gate on the starlight horizon after a few hours of riding. With winter almost at them, the nights were growing ever longer and the sky was still a dark inky canvas above them. Despite the biting cold, Jaime was grateful for that.

“Who would pass the Bloody Gate,” an orotund voice barked from above as Jaime and his companion neared the passage. Jaime could not see the guard’s in the darkness and could only hope this was one of the men he had paid on his way into the Vale. His companion seemed calm and composed but Jaime could see his left hand gripping his shield as if he thought arrows would start raining on them any moment now.

“Sayon Gerinald, a traveling merchant, bound home to Maidenpool after the tourney,” Jaime gave the answer they had agreed upon. No question about the lifeless girl in his arms or his silent companion behind him followed from the watchtowers, as the gate slowly opened and revealed the narrow passage beyond. 

Jaime urged his palfrey forward wondering whether the coin he had given to the guards was enough for them to kill a man at his command. _Most likely not._ Even the lowly guards in the Vale liked to think themselves as noble as their lords and it had been hard enough to bribe them into letting him pass through the Bloody Gate unquestioned. So he kept silent hoping that his companion would do the same.

Finally the darkness began giving way to a pale scarlet wave of light above the mountain tops to the East behind them, as they rode further and further away from the Bloody Gate. Someone would have discovered Littlefinger and the two dead guards by now. Jaime hated to be riding out in the open, an easy target to spot from afar but he did not know the Mountains of the Moon well enough to venture there. 

“You have planned everything quite thoroughly, _Ser Jaime_.” The small man rode closer to Jaime as they slowed down to a jog to give the horses some rest. Jaime did not miss the mocking in his voice. “Have you also planned on how the two of us will fight the Mountain clans if we chance upon any?”

“Mayhaps I have,” Jaime answered reluctantly. They were far enough from the Gates of the Moon now, closer to Falcons Turn than to the Bloody Gate.

“We should have a few more hours before they discover she is missing.” Had everything gone according to Jaime’s plan, this would have been true. _But dead bodies are more easily discovered than missing girls_. Jaime said nothing. He was not about to give the man any more information than he already had. “What is wrong with her?” This was the first time the hedge knight acknowledged Sansa Stark’s abnormal condition. She had not moved a single muscle, her eyes staring unseeingly into Jaime’s face. Jaime hoped a Maester would be able to tell what was wrong with her and cure her somehow. He doubted the Lady would consider his oath fulfilled if her daughter remained as she was, a living corpse whose blood ran cold.

“What is it that you are hoping to gain for delivering Sansa Stark to the Crown,” he asked without giving an answer to the hedge knight’s question.

“Why, gold, of course.” Jaime could hear the smirk in the other man’s voice. He could feel the man’s smiling eyes fixed on his face. Jaime kept his eyes ahead. The road was twisting like a serpent now. The closer they got to Falcon’s Turn, the rockier the path became. This was when Jaime noticed it. A dark speck on the road ahead of them was fast approaching. A lonely rider coming from the West, the sun shining in his face as he rode towards them. He did not look like a Clansman but it was hard to tell a friend from a foe at that distance. “Just a messenger, perhaps,” the hedge knight said and Jaime looked at him for the first time since they left the Gates of the Moon. His face was covered in deep shadow. “Unless this one drinks with your coin too.”

“No, this one does not,” Jaime admitted. _Even Lannister gold cannot buy every living man in the realm. Loyalty is much harder earned than obedience_. They were close enough to the rider now to see his face and rusty hair. Jaime let out a breath he had not known he’d been holding. He slowed his horse to a walk and felt the hedge knight doing the same on his left. 

“Well met,” Jaime greeted the rider.

“It is late, my lord. I thought that something had gone amiss.” Ser Addam’s face broke into a warm smile.

“It was not easy, stealing a maid with only one hand. And I had to improvise a few times due to… obstacles,” Jaime nodded towards the hedge knight and Ser Addam’s eyes followed his movement. Jaime’s companion was not smiling anymore. His mouth had formed a thin line and his hand was on his sword but he did not look half so scared as Jaime had expected. “I am afraid I will not be joining you on your journey to my sister. And neither will Sansa Stark.”

“I never said I was going to your sister, Ser Jaime.” _So he believes me now._

“In any case, you will not be going anywhere now.” Jaime was in no mood to listen to lies. 

“My men are waiting in a small grove just off the road,” Ser Addam’s voice was void of any emotion when he looked at Jaime expectantly, awaiting the command that would condemn the nameless hedge knight to death. The man was a nuisance, he was scarcely more than a sellsword who would betray them if it suited him. _But he spared my life when he could have killed me._

“Another dead body would only lead any searching parties our way,” he said nonchalantly. “You have a choice, ser.” He turned to face the hedge knight once more. “You can surrender your sword to Ser Addam or die. It makes very little difference to me which option you choose.” All he cared about now was that Sansa Stark would wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Falcon Turn is the made-up name I came up with for the first turn on the High Road when you travel from the Vale to the Riverlands. It looked like nothing on the map so I thought to myself "Would the Arryns be the kind of people that name everything after their sigil?" and I decided that yes, they would be.


	9. Theon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The pain is how you know you are awake”. _Only she did not know some dreams hurt too. Some pains ran deeper than flesh, they clutch like poison to your mind and smother it slowly even while you sleep._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again to anyone who is still reading this.
> 
> I know I have been really bad with updates and I am really sorry about it. I have been really busy with personal stuff and mild depression has made me really lazy and unwilling to write/draw and generally create anything for a few months.
> 
> Anyhow, I am back with a new chapter now and I promise I have already started working on the next one (if 2 paragraphs count as a start). 
> 
> I am not sure if I have ever mentioned it but, if you have not been able to tell so far, romance is not going to be the central point of this fic (it will be there eventually but I would like to actually create a, hopefully, interesting plot around it) and it will be a really slow burn. However, I will try to keep you entertained with different POVs and plot twists until Jon and Sansa finally meet.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Any thoughts or comments are always appreciated even though I rarely respond just because I feel guilty when I have not posted a chapter an update for a long time.
> 
> P.S. I was halfway through this chapter when I remembered about Jeyne so... if she feels forced that's because she was added later on.

_A step, then two, then three, try to run and skinned you’ll be. One, then two, then three, always chained and never free_ , he sang quietly in his head.

It was hard to walk in the knee-deep snow, let alone run. But he could not fool himself with that. He knew what he was doing. He was running. Again. When he had promised he would never try and run from his lordship. _His lordship would be disappointed in me. He would punish me. And he would punish Asha and the she-bear with me this time._ The thought made him shiver but it also made his frozen feet step a little faster, limping on his aching legs behind Alysane Mormont and Arya. _Jeyne, her name is Jeyne. She knows my name as I know hers._

He did not know whether they were walking through the Northern snows in truth or if he was simply dreaming of escape once again. He had thought that he would burn- a most gruesome and unnatural of deaths, the exact opposite of drowning. Yet somehow, instead of screaming in agony as the flames licked his skin and churned his limbs, he was now walking through the snowdrifts covering the Wolfswood. He had asked Asha whether he was dreaming while she was cutting the ropes that held him strung up from the ceiling in Stannis’ tower, while the screams of battle echoed outside. She had hit him square in the nose and said, “The pain is how you know you are awake”. _Only she did not know some dreams hurt too. Some pains ran deeper than flesh, they clutch like poison to your mind and smother it slowly even while you sleep._ Either way, he expected to hear Lord Ramsay’s dogs behind him any second now. They always caught him, awake or not.

Yet he kept walking. _One step, then two, then three. We will die away from sea._ Asha had not said where they were going and he could not even tell whether they were headed North or South in this weather. I made little difference. They were walking away from the battle, away from Stannis and his fires and away from Lord Ramsay. There was nothing for Theon Greyjoy in the South, and only a few Northern castles and the Wall were to the North. _Where Jon Snow is Lord Commander. He knows me. He will kill me._ The thought should have scared him but it excited him instead.

Theon Greyjoy’s spirit had been dead for some time now. It was only natural for his body to follow. He was ready for death. He had been ready to burn, even though it seemed a gruesome way of dying. But Jon Snow killing him… That would be just, it would almost be poetic. _Maybe I will see Robb_ , some part of him whispered. _Maybe I can tell him how much I regret it all. I can tell him and Lord Stark I never killed the boys._ That was a fool’s hope, he knew. Theon had not been particularly religious to begin with, and he was even less so now. The Drowned God would never allow a wretch like him into his watery halls, he did not need an oarsman whose flesh would most likely rot beneath the snows of the North. And the Old Gods would want him even less, he had committed such sins against the North. _But they helped me remember… Maybe they’ll take me._

“Do you know where we are, Alysane?” Asha’s lips were blue from the cold but her voice was as coarse and poised as ever. They had been walking for more than a day now, only stopping twice to make water and eat some of the hard, stale bread and tough horse meat Alysane and Asha had taken from the camp.

“Another half a day or so from Long Lake,” Alysane answered. Theon did not know how it came to be that the Lady Mormont was helping them escape the man she had sworn her fealty to, but he was grateful nonetheless. Without her, neither he nor Asha would have been able to escape the camp. The woman fought like her sigil. “It is difficult to tell. We are walking slowly in the snow and if another storm hits, we would be slower still.”

“It is getting dark. I say we make another stop to piss and eat. Maybe sleep for an hour or two.” Asha’s words sounded like a suggestion but her tone left little room for argument. Jeyne shook her head but said nothing. Neither Asha nor Lady Alysane liked looking at her so Theon was the only one who saw the fear in her eyes. She wanted to keep walking. 

“Sleep if you will. I am not keen on wasting away in the snows,” Lady Alysane barked darkly. “I will keep guard but if you lose a finger or a limb to the frost, do not expect me to carry you.” Carry us where, Theon thought. _Where is it we are going?_ But maybe time had stopped in this forsaken frost land or maybe his mind had gone slow from the cold but by the time he opened his dry chapped lips to speak, Asha had already dropped her bag and was chewing the remnants of the scarce dry bread they had left. 

“Here,” Asha said as she pressed the now wet mushy bread into his shaking palms. He did not look at her, he could not. He felt the colour rise to his hollow cheeks as embarrassment spread through his body once more. 

The first time they had stopped to eat he had tried to bite off a piece of bread and his broken teeth had started bleeding. He would have continued eating still, he was used to the pain in his gums and to the metallic taste of blood that accompanied his meals. But Asha would not have it. Maybe it was pity or it was something in her blood that made her care for the pathetic creature her little brother had turned into, but she would not see him suffer more than was necessary.

She had taken the bread from him and chewed it and then she had handed the soft wet lumps back to him. He had felt the same shame then for the first time in what felt like an eternity. The same shame that crawled like countless bugs under his skin now. He knew it was stupid to feel so humiliated by the act after all he had suffered. He had lost his pride and dignity time and again while in the hands of Lord Ramsay. Yet it was different now. His sister had not seen him begging for his master to hit him or licking the food off the floors of Ramsey’s kennels. She could see his white hair and his broken fingers but he could hide the pain and fear. He could pretend he was the Theon she had met on the Iron Islands. But he could not keep up that pretense while he stood as useless as a newborn while his sister chewed his food for him. 

And Jeyne… It was the opposite with her. She knew what he had been degraded into. She had seen him do his master’s bidding. She had seen him there, in her room, helpless while Lord Ramsey raped her over and over. Yet she looked at him as if he made the stars come up at night. What hero allowed himself to be defeated by his food?

He kept chewing wishing to deafen his bitter thoughts, his eyes fixed on the snow-covered trees trying not to see the disgust in Lady Alysane’s eyes, the pity in his sister’s or the way Jeyne avoided to look at him altogether during his meals. It was her own way, he supposed, to help him hold on to the little dignity he had left but it achieved quite the opposite. He kept chewing... trying not to dwell on how much easier it would be for all of them if he were dead. 

Sleep avoided him as he lay in the snow huddled between Jeyne and Asha, who had both dozed off despite the bellowing wind and the biting cold. 

Lady Alysane was sat on the other side of Jeyne, her dark eyes straining to see any movement that might mean their death. Jory used to tell Robb and him stories about the Mormont women when they had still been boys as green as grass. The she-bears of Bear Island who feared no man and lay with bears and giants alike, their savagery and bloodlust rivaling that of the wildlings beyond the Wall. Theon had smirked back then and had answered that the she-bears sought out giants because they had not been bedded by a Kraken. He had been a fool about many things back then and it came as no surprise to him that he had been a fool about this as well. The fierce woman that sat in the snow a few feet away from him now would never have taken a weakling like Theon Greyjoy to bed. He had no doubt that she was the reason they had made it out of Stannis’ camp alive.

“Why,” he croaked before he could think better. “Why did you save me?”

“You are a pitiful creature, Turncloak.” Lady Alysane’s voice was so full of contempt that it made him wish for the hundredth time for a dagger in his treasonous heart. She was quiet for a long moment that stretched into time making him think she was done talking to him. “But you are of the North. The Starks raised you with their pack. You committed great crimes against their House but it is not right for a Northerner to burn as a sacrifice to some foreign god.” He felt something stir within him, a pain so intense that he found it hard to keep breathing. “It was not for Stannis to judge your sins, he neither knew nor cared for the Young Wolf and his kin. If the gods are just you will be judged but it will be the Starks who pass that sentence. That… and Lady Arya here refused to leave while you were waiting to be burned.” _When Jon Snow sees her, he will know._ But it wouldn’t matter then. Jon Snow might know this was not his sister but he had never been cruel. He would protect Jeyne, she would be safe with him. 

“Thank you.” She wanted him dead, he knew that but she had called him a Northerner. 

“I had four sisters, Turncloak,” Lady Alysane spoke softly. “One of them died in the South alongside King Robb.” Theon felt a burning pain in his heart at the sound of the name. “When I received word of it… it felt like a piece of me had left this world. I have three living sisters left yet there is a day does not go by without me feeling a hollowness in my chest where Dacey used to live. Your sister had lost two brothers. You are all she has left now and I am fond of her. When she came crying, begging me to not let her mother’s last son be burned away from home…” Theon looked at his sleeping sister, she looked so calm as if she was back on her ship, safe and surrounded by her crew. She looked like there was nothing in this world that scared her. Yet something had, the thought of her brother burning had scared her enough to make her forsake her pride and beg. “I am not heartless, Turncloak. I would not see your sister lose her last remaining brother to the flames. That does not mean that if Jon Snow or Lady Arya demand your head, I will not be more than happy to deliver it to them.”

“Jon Snow would never ask for my head,” he murmured thoughtfully. “ _The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword._ That’s what Lord Stark used to say.” 

Lady Alysane nodded. “The Starks follow the Old Ways. Had Ned Stark lived, the North would never-“ 

Theon did not hear what would have happened had Lord Stark lived because Lady Alysane’s words were cut short when something split the air before them and a whipping sound tore the silence of the forest. Theon looked up at the arrow that had struck the tree just above his head. He turned his head to the direction the arrow had come from, his eyes searching wildly for the archer. He saw nothing but snow.  
Lady Alysane reached for her sword but another arrow hit the snow right next to her hand. Theon felt the dread slowly taking hold of his limbs. He began shaking violently and Asha’s eyes snapped open to his left. 

“Buggering hells,” Asha cursed loudly as she took in her surroundings, realising what was happening much quicker than Theon thought possible for anyone who had been sleeping just moments ago. She drew her a dagger from her booth quick as a snake and threw it in the direction of the invisible archer just as a third arrow struck the ground next to her boot. _One, then two, then three, try to fight and skinned you’ll be._ A small cold hand reached for his shaking right one and squeezed. He did not have the strength to squeeze back but she would understand. She was the only one that knew. 

“There’s a dozen of us and only four of you, counting a little girl and an old man,” a sweet female voice came from the trees to their right. “I’d be throwing my weapons if I were you and I wanted to keep on breathing, kneelers.” Theon did not recognise the voice. He felt the iron grip of terror loosen its hold. Ramsey did not take women with his hunting party. Women were usually the prey.

“Kneelers,” Lady Alysane repeated. “Are you wildlings?”

“We are of the free folk,” the voice answered with a scoff. “Now you kick that shiny sword of yours away and kneel as you Southerners like to or I will loosen four more arrows and I ain’t going to miss this time.”

Lady Alysane turned towards Asha and nodded slightly. Asha raised her hands in front of her and got on her knees. Lady Alysane kicked her sword to the left and knelt as well. Theon moved clumsily dragging Jeyne with him by the hand. He squeezed her lightly before raising his own hands in the air.

“Alright then. Tie them up,” the voice said and twelve people appeared as if out of thin air from the trees to their right. Theon searched their faces for any familiarity, afraid still that this might be a trick and their captors might not be wildlings at all. But they were all covered in furs that seemed too thick and rough even for the North. And they were led by a woman. A very beautiful woman that would have made the old Theon’s mouth water at the sight of her. Her hair was the colour of honey and she was smiling a dazzling smile at them as she was motioning to her men.

Theon’s hands were roughly pulled behind his back to be tied. 

“How did so many of you get so far South? Is the Wall still standing,” Lady Alysane asked, as a wildling was tying her hands.

“You ask a lot of questions, kneeler,” the beautiful wildling said ignoring the question. She nodded to her men and Theon and his companions were all yanked harshly to their feet. Jeyne squirmed to his right and Theon jerked away from the wildling who was holding him and towards her. 

He was quickly pulled back by two strong hands before a heavy fist collided with the back of his head and he found himself on his knees again.

“That won’t do,” their leader said. “We won’t hurt you if you behave yourselves… for now. We will just take you to Lord Crow and see if he has any use for you.” _Old Nan never told us of any wildling Lords_ , Theon thought absentmindedly. The pain in his skull was nauseating. 

He was yanked back on to his feet. The wildling behind him gave him a shove forward. _A step, then two, then three. Lord Crow awaits, you cannot flee._

The wildling’s hands never left Theon’s even though he was bound and barely walking. He could see that Lady Alysane and Asha were each flanked by two wildlings and Jeyne was gently urged forward by another. Theon walked as fast as he could despite the crushing ache in his head. Once again, he did not know where he was being ushered to but with the wildlings, at least, they might be able to fight off the first hunting party Lord Ramsay would send after them. He would not expect them to be so many. He would only send five or six of his boys along with some dogs. The twelve wildlings along with Lady Alysane and Asha would make easy work of them. _Unless the wildlings decide to just hand us over to Ramsay’s boys without a fight._ Or Lord Ramsay decided to send more men, just to be sure his wife and his toy are returned to him. 

They reached a large clearing and Theon heard Jeyne’s gasp somewhere to his right. It seemed they had been closer to Long Lake than Lady Alysane had thought. He would have laughed, had his mouth remembered how to do it. _Lord Ramsay would have to send his whole army to take the wildling… camp._

It did not look like a proper camp – he could see no tents or supply lines – at all but Theon had no other word for it. The whole clearing around the lake was filled with men and women, all of them dressed in the rough heavy furs the wildlings that had captured them were wearing. He could even see a few children running around. _This is no raid. They are migrating._

“How,” Lady Alysane’s voice sounded somewhere behind him, full of surprise and terror. Theon tried to see the picture before them through her eyes. She had grown up trying to defend her lands from the wildlings and now she saw a thousand of them lodging comfortably, if coldly, on her side of the Wall. Her worst nightmare brought to life. 

“Asking questions again are we, kneeler?” The Beauty’s voice sounded irritated. “I will tell you if it’s that important to you. We did not climb the Wall. We were let through.” He heard a grunt of disbelief from Lady Alysane, followed by the pleased laughter of the wildling.

As they entered the camp, people began greeting their captors. Theon tried to keep his eyes fixed on his feet, avoiding the bold suspicious eyes of the wildlings against them.

“What are you going to do with us?” Asha sounded calm, almost mocking but Theon could hear the slight pang of fear beneath her words. _Whatever it is, it would be a mercy compared to Lord Ramsay_ , he wanted to tell her but he kept his mouth shut. She would not believe him. None of them would. None but Jeyne. 

“Don’t know yet, kneeler,” one of the men answered this time. “’Tis for Lord Crow to decide.”

Theon chanced a quick glance around him and saw the glittering white blanket that covered the Long Lake to his left. He had been here twice during the Summer: once with Lord Stark when visiting the Last Hearth; and once with Robb and a very sullen Jon Snow when Theon had talked them into stealing away from Winterfell to go hunting by themselves. They had been gone for six nights and had killed nothing but bloody rabbits. Jory had found them on the seventh day and dragged them back to the castle to face a seething Lord Stark and a nearly mad Lady Stark. It had not been worth the trouble, they had all agreed in hindsight. _What I would not give to turn back time_ , Theon thought wistfully now, walking the same ground he had walked with Robb and Jon Snow. He looked back down to his feet.

They were moving away from the main camp now. Suddenly, he was shoved down on his knees again, as were his companions. Surprisingly enough, their captors who seemed to despise kneelers so much, all fell on one knee. Theon wanted to look up, to check one last time that this was no trap and that this Lord Crow was not a guise used by Lord Ramsay to trick him. He kept his gaze down.

“Jeyne Poole.” The voice was so familiar yet so different to his ears. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. Maybe he was laying rolled up in a ball on the floor in Lord Ramsay’s kennel dreaming of the past, seeing blue-eyed ghosts and hearing Jon Snow’s voice. He had never dreamed of Jon Snow before, only Robb.

“J-Jon…” Jeyne’s voice was trembling and Theon finally looked up. He felt like a fist had hit him in the middle knocking his breath out. His body went limp all of a sudden and he felt a burn in his wrists where the rope was pulling him back, preventing him from falling in the snow. “I… I am sorry, Jon. They made me do it, they made me pretend,” Jeyne was crying now, her voice sounding more and more hysterical with each word. Theon could hear Lady Alysane shouting something and his sister cursing at the wildlings loudly. He felt numb. He could barely see, his eyes blurred by tears he did not know he was spilling. 

“Take them all away. Feed them.” Jon Snow sounded like a Lord, like a King even. Theon did not remember his voice being so stern. But then again, there was much he did not remember anymore. _What shade of red was Robb’s hair? I don’t know. I don’t know._ His soul was screaming inside him. He had not known he still had one. Someone pulled him up. “Not him. Leave him.” 

The hands that were pulling his wrists suddenly disappeared and Theon’s knees hit the snow once more. He sat back on his heels, his body drained of strength. His head fell on his chest, baring his neck obediently. He was ready for Jon Snow’s sword. _It will not be Ice. Ice was taken by the Lannisters._

But the sword never came. “Do you lay awake at night, staring at a starless sky thinking he would still be drawing breath had he never trusted you, Theon,” Jon Snow asked instead. Theon looked up at him. He had changed. 

Theon did not answer. He looked back down at his knees and shook his head denying the truth in Jon Snow’s words.

“Because I do, Theon.” There was no venom in his voice but the words seemed to be poisoning Theon. “I lay every night with a hole in my chest where my brother once was and I would kill you a thousand times over if I knew it would bring him back.” Theon looked back up and straight into the Stark grey eyes looking for something in them. Looking for hatred for he deserved it. But there was nothing. Jon Snow’s eyes were completely void of emotion as he was stabbing invisible daggers in Theon’s chest.

“No,” Theon shook his head again. “Robb.” Burning tears began leaking down his frozen cheeks again, leaving a hot trail on his skin. “I am sorry.” His body felt weak. His mind was even weaker. 

“Does his name not taste like ash on your tongue, Theon?” Jon Snow smiled coldly at him as if rejoicing at his agony. Jon Snow had never been cruel before. But he was now. _Maybe this is my fault too. I destroyed his home, I betrayed our brother._

“I never…” Theon stuttered. “He was my family too. I loved him too.” He could no longer keep his head up. The wind was blowing mercilessly around them. Yet he felt no cold. The frosts of winter were nothing to the coldness that had taken root inside his soul. “ _Kill me,_ ” he whispered.

Jon Snow looked at him. Grey eyes, not blue. He looked nothing like Robb. And it was better this way but it was somehow worse. It would be agony to look upon his face had he resembled his half-brother in any way yet Theon would have gladly given whatever little his wretched being had left to give to look into Robb’s eyes once more before he died. 

Jon Snow’s hand moved towards the hilt of his sword. A white wolf, Theon noticed for the first time and remembered Jon’s direwolf had been white as well. The runt of the litter, yet he had fared better than his brother.

It would be a relief to die really. And not by fire or by Lord Ramsey’s dogs. By the hand of Robb’s other brother. _I never liked him, not really. Robb always loved him better than me. And with good reason. He never betrayed him. And now he will avenge him._

Theon closed his eyes awaiting peace at last. _Would I disappear if I die away from sea_ , he wondered. _But no, I was never really a Kraken. The North is the only home I ever knew. And maybe I will see **him** in the afterlife. _ Maybe **he** would laugh and his blue eyes would shine as bright as in their childhood. Theon’s lips twitched in a smile then. The first smile he had smiled in an eternity. He felt warm at last. 

“No.” Jon Snow’s voice cut through him like a sword. And suddenly he could feel that cold again and he could no longer remember the blue of Robb’s eyes.

“Please,” his voice broke.

“Death would be a mercy for you. You owe the Starks a debt, Theon. And I would see that you do not find peace until that debt is paid ten times over.” The words echoed in Theon’s mind.

Jon Snow walked away then leaving him alone with his burning tears and the fading memory of blue eyes and auburn curls.

**Author's Note:**

> This is based strictly on the books, not the show. Having said that, I last read the books about 2-3 years ago so if you find any errors, do let me know so I can amend those.
> 
> P.S. This is my first attempt at fanfiction, so please do not be too harsh.


End file.
